EXPIATION 


OCTAVE  THANET 


Illustrated  by 


A.  B.  FROST 


A  good  book  is  the  liie  hi       ,  - 

A    PK  V^^^^^f'-^  "taster  spirit 

^^  ^^barv  is  not  a  luxl.   ,     ,  -^mon 

sanes  of  Jife.         ^'V >  but  one  of  the  neces 
^o  be  M,thout  books  of  v^.      ~~^-  ^'-  Beechel 
I  T.  .  P^""0^  'V'"  o^^n  is  the  abvss  of 

'  ^'  -  a  deii^^ht  to  n.erel.  iok  ..TT^^^-  ^^'^ 
of  quiet  reverie  fn    h  T  '^^  books— in  a  sf^f^ 

;;:;;l^;;3'ou.ii;;^?pt;^;;^ther;jir^JS^^ 

J^hich^-ou  will  not  tasteA  ^'^^r^'^'^'-^Pe^ 
■u:^:Z^^ZZ~- J2~~^''''^'-  Lamb. 


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R-  LEWIS. 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 
OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 
PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


EXPIATION 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2009  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/expiationOOthan 


You    have  one   brave   boy   alive,"    said    Adele  steadily. 


o 


EXPIATION 


BY 

OCTAVE    THANET 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  A.  B.  FROST 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1890 


Copyright,   1890,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co, 
Aster  Place,  New  York. 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"  Vou  have  07ie  brave  boy  alive"  said  Adele,  steadily, 

Frontispiece 

PAGE 

*'lVe  all  sw'ar  it  /" .     22 

Aunt  Hizzie, 28 

"  May    Jane's  little  playful  ways  with  fences  a7id 
dififier-horns," 43 

"  Atid,  wou7td  about  the  creature's  neck,  a  gleaniing 

and  hissing  snake," 54 

"Dead's  a  hammer,  ain't  he.  Mack?"  .         .         .66 

"  If  ye  pull  that  trigger,  an'  hit  the  myark,  ye  kin 

ride  off  free," 90 


602912 


VI  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 


"  How  come y oil  11  Fair  dont  talk  like  we  all?  "  .     98 

Slick  Mose  and  A  dele, .105 

"He  has  no  one  but  me,''  she  prayed ;  "  lielp  me  to 

help  him,'' 117 

Fairfax  Rutherford,  Esq.,     .         .         .         .         .         .136 

"  Dress   iip   now   atid  stand  steady,  unless  you  all 

would  like  better  to  swing !"  .         .         .         .145 

Dick  Barnabas  and  some  of  his  gray  backs,  .         .159 

"Be  ye   aimin'   t'   kill  me,  aii'  me  with   my  hands 

up  ?  "        .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .178 

Bud  Fowler,    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .183 

Lige  a?id  Sam,         .         .         .         .         .         .         ...188 

"  Sick  folks  don't  like  noise,"  .....   190 

"  Well,  boy,  I  reckon  I  had  ought^  to  say  something  to 
you,"         .........  197 


o 


EXPIATION. 


I. 

ONLY  the  puddles  and  sluices  of  water 
showed,  unless  the  rider  flashed  his  lan- 
tern down  the  road.  Then  a  disk  of  landscape, 
a  kind  of  weird  etching,  was  struck  out  of  the 
night.  Huge  gum-trees  dripped  on  either  side  ; 
a  stealthy  patter  of  rain-drops  dribbling  through 
the  thicket  of  trumpet-vines,  '^tar-blankets,"*  and 
briar  which  masked  the  swamp  beneath.  The 
rain  had  ceased,  but  not  a  star  appeared  to  illu- 
mine this  surly  and  dismal  nature. 

East  and  west,  as  the  lantern-bearer  knew,  the 
rotten  *  corduroy  was  drawn  in  a  straight  line 
across  the  morass.  East  and  west,  north  and 
south,  only  a  few  lonely  cabins  with  their  clear- 
ings broke  the  monotony  of  the  forest  between 
Village  Creek  and  the  Black  River.  Wherever  the 
land  was  creased  by  a  depression,  the  water  cov- 
ered the  roots  of  the  cypresses  and  tupello-gums. 

*  Or,  /mr-blankets. 


2  EXP  I  A  TION. 

**  What   a   country  to   live   in  !  "   muttered  the 
rider  ;  "  is  all  Arkansas  like  this,  I  wonder  ?  " 

Any  one  could  guess  from  the  voice  that  he  who 
spoke  was  not  a  Southerner.  It  was  a  very  pleas- 
ant voice,  however,  with  nice  modulations,  and 
when  the  lantern  rays  swerved  at  a  stumble  of 
the  horse,  they  showed  a  slender,  well-knit  figure, 
and  a  delicate,  bright  young  face,  with  gentle 
brown  eyes,  and  not  enough  down  on  the  upper 
lip  or  cheek  to  hide  a  mobile  mouth  and  rounded 
chin  ;  altogether  a  handsome  young  fellow.  Tiny 
wrinkles  at  the  corners  of  the  eyelids  and  a  dimple 
in  the  cheek  hinted  that  this  was  also  a  young 
fellow  who  laughed  easily.  He  was  laughing  now, 
swinging  the  lantern  above  his  mud-splashed  legs. 

"What  a  figure  of  fun  you  are,  Fairfax  Ruther- 
ford," said  he,  gayly, ''  and  yet  you  don't  look  half 
the  native  either." 

With  a  praiseworthy  notion  of  suiting  his  dress 
to  the  country,  Fairfax,  before  he  left  England, 
had  bought  such  an  outfit  as  they  sell  you  in 
Reeent  Street  "  for  the  bush."  Therefore  he  was  «^ 
clad  in  a  wide,  cream-colored  soft  hat,  a  shooting- 
jacket  of  brown  duck  that  bristled  with  pockets,  §^ 
and  corduroy  trousers  pushed  into  leggins. 

*'  Father  will  laugh  at  me,  I  dare  say  " — so  his 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION.  3 

thoughts  rambled  on — '*  but  I  tJiink  he  will  be 
glad  ;  what  a  bore  to  be  a  stranger  to  one's  own 
father !  " 

He  tried  to  recall  his  single  youthful  visit  to  his 
father's  plantation.  Only  a  few  pictureSi  would 
come.  A  great,  white,  ill-built  house  and  mysteri- 
ous clutter  of  outbuildings ;  bare-footed  negroes 
tumbling  over  each  other,  in  their  efforts  to 
"  make  haste  wid  de  dinner ;  "  outside,  the  river 
noises  behind  the  willows,  the  wind  in  the  cypress 
brakes,  the  reckless  hunts  through  the  cane,  the 
grinning  black  faces  among  the  cotton  bolls,  the 
hogs  rooting  under  the  pecan-trees,  and  cattle 
browsing  on  the  wide  fields  ;  the  unkempt  figures 
that  used  to  loiter  round  the  store  and  gin ; 
that  good  little  romp,  his  stepmother's  daughter, 
Adele  ;  those  two  mischievous,  riotous,  soft- 
hearted lads,  his  brothers,  and  the  jocular,  shabby, 
easy-going  planter,  his  father;  such  were  the  pict- 
ures that  all  at  once  made  Fairfax  Rutherford 
sigh,  for  the  old  barbarous  plentiful  days  were 
gone  forever,  and  the  boys  lay  in  their  unmarked 
soldiers'  graves. 

Soon  his  thoughts  strayed  to  a  conversation 
which  he  had  heard  that  afternoon,  just  before  he 
started.    He  had  passed  through  the  Federal  lines, 


4  EXP  I  A  TION, 

and  his  day's  journey  ended  with  sunset  at  a  poor 
tavern,  post-ofifice  and  '*  store  "  as  well,  where  he 
hoped  to  procure  another  horse  and  a  guide. 
Guide  there  was  none  to  be  had,  but  the  woman 
who  kept  the  house,  when  she  was  told  his  name, 
greeted  him  warmly,  and  bestowed  on  him  her 
only  horse,  ''  a  broken-down  Texas  pony  with  the 
string-halt."  She  set  before  him  her  best  of  food, 
also  ;  fried  pork,  and  corn  bread,  and  chiccory 
coffee.  While  he  ate  he  could  overhear  his  host- 
ess talking  to  some  wayfarer.  The  man,  with  the 
vigilant  curiosity  of  rustics  and  of  the  troublous 
time,  had  noted  Rutherford's  hat  in  the  gallery. 

''  Who  all  you  got  in  thar?"  said  he. 

'*  He  done  come,"  answered  the  woman,  briefly. 

''Fair  Rutherford?  Mymy !  Mymy  !  Wun't 
the  ole  man  be  chirked  up  !  Whut  like's  he,  ony- 
how  ?     Favor  Jeff  or  Rafe?" 

"  Naw,  he  pintedly  does  favor  his  maw.  But  he 
got  the  same  pleasant  laffin'  turn  like  his  paw. 
He  ain't  so  tall  an'  stout  like  Jeff  an'  Rafe,  but 
he  are  a  mighty  pretty  young  man." 

The  man  laughed  good-naturedly. 

''Women  folkses  is  all  fur  looks.  Now  t'  my 
mine,  Jeff  an'  Rafe  ben  the  purties'  young  fellers 
I  ever  did  see.     Run  an'  ride  an'  shoot — law  me, 


EXP  I  A  TION,  5 

they  warn't  nuthin'  they'd  orter  know  they  didn't 
done,  by  gum  !  An'  fightin' — my  Lord  !  I  cayn't 
get  satisfied,  nohow,  with  them  boys  bein'  killed 
up  !  I  ben  with  Jeff  at  Springfield — -leadin'  the 
charge  with  three  wyounds  onto  him — jess  like 
the  ole  man,  them  boys.  He's  mighty  gayly  an' 
pleasant,  but  I  tell  ye  he  are  a  painter  ^"  in  battle. 
He  didn't  quit  fightin'  till  he  must.  An'  I  stuck 
tew  him,  blame  my  skin  !  " 

"You  did,  shore,  Mist'  Fowler,"  responded  the 
woman,  warmly  ;  "  better'n  some  of  his  own  kin. 
Look  at  Mr.  Fairfax  Rutherford  stayin'  over  to 
Europ  stiddier  comin'  home  an'  fightin' — not  that 
he'd  'a'  got  are  good  neether  by  comin'." 

"  I  heard  tell  he  ben  a  abolitionist,  an'  that's 
how  come  he  went  tuh  Europ." 

"Shucks,  naw,  sir.  Aunt  Hizzie,  she  tole  me 
a  plumb  diff'rent  tale ;  sayd  he  ben  waitin'  on  Mis' 
Rutherford  that's  dead — warn't  she  the  third?" 

The  man  laughed,  and  asked  how  was  he  to 
know  ?  he  couldn't  keep  up  with  the  old  man's 
marryings. 

"  Yes,  sir,  she  ben  the  third,  an'  she  belonged 
down  t'  Little  Rock ;  an'  the  cunnel  he  jes'  loved 

*  Panther.      They  were  not  uncommon  in  Arkansas  at  this  date 
— in  the  sixties. 


6  EXP  I  A  TION. 

her  tew  kill,  but  Mist'  Fairfax  Rutherford  got  her 
word  tew  marry  him,  an'  when  he  diskivered  her 
mind  ben  a  turnin'  tur  the  cunnel,  he  taken  it 
mighty  hard,  but  he  give  her  back  her  word  an' 
lit  out  an'  went  t'  Europ.  Didn't  do  nare  mean- 
ness t'  the  cunnel." 

"Must  'a'  ben  a  durned  fool!"  was  the  man's 
contemptuous  comment ;  but  whether  his  con- 
tempt was  excited  by  Fairfax  Rutherford's  for- 
bearance or  his  going  to  Europe  did  not  appear. 

"  He  was  a  mighty  pretty  man,"  continued  Mrs. 
Crowder,  meditatively.  "  I  can  jes'  see  the  way 
he  looked  v/hen  he  come  yere  on  a  visit.  Never 
did  come  but  twicet.  Hit  ben  in  the  fall  of  the 
year.  Yes,  sir.  An'  if  ye  please,  he  wears  a  coat 
all  trimmed  up  with  fur,  kase  of  it  bein'  so  cole 
up  North.  They  all  sent  the  kerridge,  an'  little 
Fair  hopped  aout  an'  ben  a  limpin'  raoun'  like  he 
uster.  He  gives  a  sorter  styart  like,  when  he  fust 
seen  the  chile,  an'  I  heerd  him  say  t'  hisseff,  'Yes, 
he's  got  the  eyes.'  Eyes  like  hern,  ye  onderstand. 
Anybuddy  cud  see  he  jes'  sot  the  world  an'  any  "^ 
by  that  ar  boy,  from  the  fust  minnit.  The  cunnel 
let   him   cyar   'way  kase  he   sayd  the  doctors    in 


"^  Any  is  often  used  for  "  all.' 


EXP  I  A  TION.  7 

Lunnon  cud  cure  his  laig  ;  and  they  done  it  fur 
a  fac'.  He  came  back  oncet  on  a  visit  an'  didn't 
halt  a  bit.  Looked  like  his  paw  cudn't  bar  ter 
pyart  with  him  that  time,  nohow,  but  I  reckon 
he'd  guv  his  word." 

*'  Then  he'd  stick  tew  hit,"  said  Fowler,  dog- 
gedly;  "  the  ole  man  never  rues  back."  Reckon 
the  young  feller  will  be  goin'  aout  by  sun  up?" 

"  He  are  goin'  aout  this  evenin'.  Mist'  Fowler. 
He's  hterd  his  paw  done  broke  his  laig  an'  is  right 
feeble,  an'  he  cayn't  stop.  Says  it's  a  straight 
road  an'  he  doan'  mind  mud.  He's  fixin'  t'  go 
naow." 

*'  Looks  like  he  got  grit.  I  'lowed  he  had  when 
I  heerd  'baout  his  letter  t'  the  ole  man.  Writ  it 
soon's  he  heerd  'baout  Rafe.  Say,  wisht  I  cud 
cyar  the  boy  longer  me,  but  'twudn't  be  bes',  I 
reckon.  Waal,  mud  ain't  more'n  shoe-mouth 
deep  moster  the  way,  an's  ye  say,  Mis'  Crowder, 
hit's  a  straight  road.  An' — it's  me  they  all's 
ayfter,  not  him.  Say,  Tobe's  like  t'  be  a  spell 
gittin'  of  that,  cudn't  I  jes'  git  a  squint  at  him  ?  " 

**  Come  by  and  see  him." 

"Better  not,  better  not,  some  un  mought  come 


*  "  Rue  back  "  is  to  try  to  get  out  of  a  bad  bargain. 


8  EX  PI  A  TION. 

by    an'  see  us  t'gether,   but    I'd    like    fur   t'    see 

im. 

Apparently  Mrs.  Crowder  acquiesced  ;  for  Fair- 
fax, whose  ears  were  abnormally  acute,  heard 
cautious  footsteps  outside,  and  had  a  sense  of 
being  inspected  through  the  window. 

He  had  listened  to  the  whole  conversation  with 
a  mingling  of  interest  and  amusement.  How  the 
half-forgotten  dialect  returned  to  him,  with  its  soft 
drawl  and  nasal  accent,  and  those  singular  inflec- 
tions that  seemed  to  leave  the  voice  poised  in 
mid-air,  as  it  were,  at  the  close  of  a  sentence. 

At  some  parts  of  the  talk  he  winced.  His 
father's  many  marriages  were  a  sore  point  to  him, 
as  human  nature's  compromises  with  the  ideal 
always  are  to  youth.  To  be  the  third  Mrs.  Ruth- 
erford's son  seemed  bad  enough,  but  to  have  the 
fourth  Mrs.  Rutherford  moving  about  the  house, 
and,  in  a  painstaking  way,  dusting  the  portraits  of 
her  predecessors,  was  almost  indecent.  "  I  dare 
say  it's  the  country,"  he  muttered  ;  ''  everybody 
seems  to  be  marrying  his  or  her  third  or  fourth — 
Hello  !  " 

He  reined  in  his  horse  sharply  and  looked  down 
the  road.  Certainly  that  was  the  splash  of  hoofs 
through  the   mud.     Instinctively  he   let   the   Ian- 


o 


EXP  J  A  TJON.  9 

tern,  which  was  slung  about  his  neck,  drop  into 
its  natural  position,  while  with  his  free  hand  he 
drew  a  pistol.  The  Federal  troops  had  forced 
Marmaduke  and  Shelby  to  retreat ;  but  bands  of 
guerillas  infested  the  country.  Offscourings  of 
both  armies,  outlaws  of  all  kinds;  under  the  pre- 
tence of  patriotism,  they  stripped  the  miserable 
citizens  of  what  dregs  of  property  war  had  left 
them. 

Fairfax,  hearkening,  felt  an  ominous  tremor  run 
through  his  horse's  limbs.  In  a  second  the  pursu- 
ing horse  galloped  into  the  circle  of  light.  A  man, 
hatless  and  coatless,  was  clinging  to  the  beast's 
neck ;  his  arms  clasped  about  the  neck,  his  head 
hanging.  The  horse,  a  powerful  bay  mare,  gal- 
loped recklessly  over  the  rotten  timber.  Fairfax 
shouted  ;  he  saw  that  the  man  must  be  wounded, 
because  there  was  blood  on  his  hair  and  his  shirt. 
Simultaneously  he  caught  at  the  flying  bridle. 

The  mare  stopped  and  flung  up  her  head  ;  the 
rider  lay  like  a  limp  rag. 

**  I  say,  are  you  hurt?"  called  Fairfax;  "do 
you  want  some  brandy?"  Then  he  started  vio- 
lently, bent  over  the  man,  and  touched  his  hand. 

"  Great  heavens !  "  he  muttered,  ""  what  a 
horror  !  " 


lO  EXPIATION. 

It  was  the  man  who  had  talked  with  Mrs. 
Crowder  that  afternoon,  and  he  was  stone  dead. 
Somebody  had  lashed  the  unfortunate  creature  to 
the  horse,  tying  his  wrists  together  about  the 
neck,  and  his  feet  by  the  ankles. 

The  young  fellow  looked  at  him  with  a  quiver- 
ing face.  He  was  shaken  by  a  confusion  of  pity 
and  horror.  It  was  his  first  sight  of  violent  death. 
Bred  in  the  daintiest  and  smoothest  of  old-world 
civilization,  bloodshed  and  personal  peril  were 
only  printed  words  to  him.  Here  he  was,  flung 
into  the  arena.  And  he  was  conscious  of  an  ex- 
cited curiosity,  besides  his  pity  and  his  horror. 
At  the  same  time  another  obscurer  emotion 
threaded  his  sensations,  more  personal,  with  an 
edge  of  pain  to  it  ;  an  emotion  haunting  and 
subtle  like  a  nightmare  recollection,  gone  before  it 
can  be  viewed  distinctly. 

Back,  far  back  in  his  childhood,  in  dark  rooms, 
in  negro  cabins  listening  to  hobgoblin  yarns  of 
conjured  victims;  once,  wringing  his  hands  on  a 
river  bank  while  a  girl,  hardly  a  year  older  than 
he,  wades  into  the  current,  branch  in  hand,  and 
rescues  a  drowning  boy  ;  or  on  horseback  gallop- 
ing after  dogs  and  hounds  toward  the  horrible 
tusks  at   bay  ;  in  a   hundred   similar  experiences 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION.  1 1 

that  intangible  terror  liad  its  springs.  How  far 
back  yesterday  seemed  the  old  childish  spectre ; 
but  now 

''  I  believe  I'm  afraid  of  being  afraid  !  "  cried 
young  Fairfax. 

His  thoughts,  which  take  longer  in  the  telling. 
did  in  fact  occupy  the  briefest  space  ;  and  all  the 
while  he  w^as  holding  the  bay  mare's  rein  and  star- 
ing at  the  livid  face  flung  over  her  neck. 

When  the  young  man  shifted  his  lantern  for 
better  examination — not  with  any  hope  of  finding 
a  lingering  of  life,  for  no  creature  could  live  a  min- 
ute with  that  jagged  tear  in  his  brain — he  per- 
ceived a  folded  paper  pinned  very  carefully  to  the 
back  of  the  dead  man's  shirt. 

To  Rutherford's  amazement  the  paper  bore  his 
own  name.  He  unpinned  it  and  opened  the  folds 
to  find  these  words: 

"  This  is  Mr.  James  1  Fowler  he  was  shot  by 
the  gray  backs  He  was  a  right  good  friend  of 
your  father  For  Gods  sake  take  him  to  his  wife 
and  six  childern  TJiis  is  imporitant  They  live 
on  the  yon  side  of  Runing  Watter  Rite  on  your 
road  the  horse  knows  the  way  " 

The  handwriting  was  cramped  and  uneven,  and 
there  was  no  signature. 


1 2  EXP /A  TION. 

"Well,  here  is  a  pretty  mess,"  said  Fairfax; 
"  Running  Water?  where  the  deuce  is  Running 
Water?  and  does  the  *  yon  '  side  mean  tJiis  side  or 
the  further  side?     Confound  it,  I  used  to  know  !" 

His  vague  terrors  had  all  disappeared  ;  he  was 
occupied  entirely  with  the  distasteful  errand  pro- 
posed to  him.  But  he  did  not  consider,  for  a  sec- 
ond, the  refusing  of  it  ;  even  had  the  man  not 
been  his  father's  friend,  there  were  the  miserable 
wife  and  six  children  waiting  ''  on  the  yon  side  of 
Runing  Watter." 

Dismounting,  he  bound  up  the  man's  head  with 
his  silk  handkerchief,  as  decently  as  he  could ; 
after  which  he  got  on  his  sorry  hack  again,  and 
rode  on,  leading  the  bay  mare. 

It  did  flash  across  him  once  that  it  might  be  a 
trap  ;  but  he  could  see  no  motive  for  the  needless 
pains,  since  any  guerillas  minded  to  capture  and 
plunder  him  need  only  wait  on  the  road.  No,  it 
was  more  likely  that  some  helpless  witness  of  the 
murder  had  taken  such  strange  means  of  sending 
the  murdered  man's  body  home. 

Yet,  as  he  pored  over  the  note  again,  he  was 
struck  with  the  impression  of  something  underly- 
ing the  words, 

*'  TJiis  is  important''    he   repeated,    *'  and   why 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION.  1 3 

marked?  What  an  extraordinary  way  to  express 
himself.  By  Jove,  it  may  be  herself,  for  anything 
I  know." 

He  wondered  if  the  writer  could  be  Mrs.  Crow- 
der.  ''  The  man  must  have  been  shot  directly 
after  I  left" — so  he  made  out  the  story — ''  and  it 
must  have  been  somebody  who  knew  me  and  knew 
where  I  was  going,  and  what  an  old  signpost  I  was 
riding.  Overtake  me  !  by  Jove,  a  cow  could  over- 
take this  brute." 

The  road  grew  better  for  a  little  space,  but 
presently  dipped  into  a  denser  forest.  Fairfax's 
lantern  showed  him  the  gleam  of  water.  A  dark 
stream  wound  among  the  cypress  trunks  into  the 
night.  Plainly,  this  was  Running  Water,  and  on 
the  other  side  should  be  poor  Fowler's  house  ;  yes, 
he  could  see  the  twinkle  of  a  light. 

Riding  nearer,  the  shape  of  a  house  took  out- 
line— a  large,  low,  gambrel-roofed  house — and  at  a 
window  the  light.  A  pang  struck  the  young  man's 
heart  as  he  thought  how  the  light  was  shining  for 
the  father  thus  taking  his  woful  last  ride.  A 
child's  white  head  was  close  to  the  lamp,  and  a 
woman  held  up  a  baby  to  make  futile  clutches  at 
its  own  little  laughing  face  in  the  window-pane. 

Fairfax  could  have  groaned.     ''  How  can  I   tell 


14  EX  PI  A  TION. 

them  ?  "  he  thought.  "  Confound  the  kind-hearted 
meddler  that  saddled  this  nasty  business  on  me." 
But  there  was  nothing  for  it  now  but  to  go  on. 
Moreover,  at  this  moment,  a  couple  of  yelping 
hounds  burst  out  of  the  shadows  to  plunge  at 
their  master's  legs  with  a  tumult  of  howls. 

The  door  was  opened,  showing  a  woman  who 
held  a  rude  lamp  on  high.  Even  at  that  moment 
Fairfax  perceived  that  she  was  young  and  pretty. 
Above  the  voices  of  another  woman  and  the  elder 
children  rang  a  sweet,  high  little  treble — '^  Daddy 
comin' !  Daddy  comin' !  "      Fairfax  felt  heart-sick. 

''  We  all  reckoned  you  weren't  coming  to-night," 
said  the  young  woman,  shading  her  eyes  with  a 
slim  white  hand,  while  the  other  lifted  the  lamp 
for  a  wider  view.  The  light  brought  her  a  picture 
which  made  her  run  swiftly  to  the  horse's  head. 

''  He's  been  hurt  ? "  she  said,  in  a  very  low 
voice.     "  Oh,  poor  fellow  !  " 

Fairfax  was  aware  of  a  quick  relief,  a  sense  of 
companionship  :  this  wasn't  the  way  that  a  sister 
or  wife  would  talk  ;  the  girl  must  be  some  neigh- 
bor ;  and  afterward  he  remembered  how  sure  he 
felt,  with  the  first  glance,  that  she  was  a  woman  to 
help  one. 

A  few  nervous,  brief  sentences  told  her  all  that 


EX  PI  A  TION.  1 5 

he  knew  of  the  tragedy.  She  took  the  note.  As 
she  read,  the  lampHght  was  on  her  fine  profile, 
and  loosened  hair,  and  the  lovely  oval  of  one 
cheek. 

How  admirably  pretty  she  was,  to  be  sure ! 
But  it  was  not  her  beauty  that  made  the  young 
fellow  stare  at  her.  He  was  looking  at  the  fingers 
on  the  note — white,  smooth  fingers,  with  almond- 
shaped  nails. 

"  Why,  it's  a  lady  !  "   he  exclaimed. 

Just  then  she  lifted  her  eyes.  They  were  swim- 
ming in  tears. 

"  Oh,  Cousin  Fair,  that  I  should  not  have  known 
you  !  "  she  said. 

''  It  is  Adele,  then,"  cried  he.  Of  course  ;  how 
could  he  have  failed  to  recognize  her  before,  his 
little  cousin  who  was  his  stepmother's  daughter  ? 

He  might  have  taken  his  childhood's  privilege 
on  her  soft,  pale  cheek,  but  a  voice  from  the  door- 
way recalled  him,  like  a  blow. 

"  Looks  like  you  all  a  long  spell  out  thar,"  said 
Jim  Fowler's  wife.  "Come  on  in;  Fll  be  shore 
chillin'  '^  ef  I  stan'  yere  much  longer.     Fotch  the 


*  "  Chilling,"  in  Arkansas,  does  not  mean  catching  cold  or  being 
cold  ;  but  having  the  chill,  which  is  part  of  the  ague  common  in 
low  lands. 


1 6  EXPIATION, 

gentleman  by,  Miss  Delia,  please,  w'ile  Jim  putts 
up  the  bosses." 

The  young  man  and  the  girl  exchanged  a  glance 
of  miserable  confidence,  each  conscious  of  a  touch 
of  relief  in  the  other's  presence. 

''You  stay  here,"  whispered  Adele  ;  "get  be- 
tween him  and  the  light  so  she  cayn't  see  ;  I'll  tell 
her." 

The  light  wavered  above  her  brown  head  as  she 
ran  into  the  house.  The  door  was  shut  behind 
her.  Outside,  to  Fairfax  waiting  while  the  hounds 
crouched  at  their  dead  master's  feet,  whimpering, 
and  the  wind  was  rising  in  the  cypress  brake,  it 
seemed  a  long  time  before  the  door  opened  again  ; 
and,  during  it  all,  he  could  not  hear  a  sound  from 
within. 

''  I  feel  as  I  used  to  feel  when  I  was  a  cowardly 
little  cub,"  was  his  involuntary  comparison ;  ''  if 
only  Adele  would  come  !  " 

She  had  come ;  at  least  she  was  on  the  threshold. 
A  lad  of  thirteen  or  fourteen  stood  behind  her, 
crying  bitterly  but  silently.  He  held  the  rude 
''grease  lamp  "  of  the  country  ;  and  Adele  helped 
Fairfax  lift  poor  Jim  Fowler  from  his  horse.  To- 
gether they  bore  him  into  the  house  and  laid  him 
on  his  bed,  where  the  widow  came  and  bent  over 


o 


EXPIATION.  17 

him.  She  was  dreadfully  calm,  though  the  chil- 
dren made  a  din  of  grief  about  her.  She  did  not 
seem  to  know  when  the  boy  coaxed  them  into 
another  room.  But  Fairfax  saw  Delia  send  a 
compassionate  glance  after  the  little  fellow. 

*' They's  things  t'be  done,"  the  widow  said, 
in  a  dull,  hard  voice,  ''things;  holp  me.  Miss 
Delia." 

"  It  would  be  in  his  boots,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Yes,  we  'lowed  to  putt  it  in  his  stocking,"  said 
the  woman,  bending  over  him,  dry-eyed  but  trem- 
bling, and  straining  at  the  boots.  They  were 
the  very  raggedest,  forlornest  boots  that  Fairfax 
had  ever  seen ;  and  removed,  there  were  revealed 
strips  of  rag  twisted  about  the  feet  in  place  of 
stockings,  as  is  done  in  some  parts  of  Arkansas 
to  this  day.  Yet  otherwise  the  man's  attire  was 
whole,  and  cleaner  than  common.  The  woman 
fell  to  unwinding  the  rags  with  desperate  haste. 
All  at  once  she  straightened  herself  and  pushed 
something  at  Adele,  saying :  "  Didn't  you  tole 
me  yon  was  young  Rutherford  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madam,"  Fairfax  interrupted,  "  I  am 
Fairfax  Rutherford." 

"  Then  thar's  you'  paw's  money,"  said  she. 

Fairfax  was  at  a  loss  for  words.     The  woman 
2 


1 8  EXP  I  A  TION. 

had  thrown  the  package  at  him  ;  perforce  he  had 
caught  it  and  held  it,  dumbly. 

*'  Caount  hit,"  she  said,  sharply ;  ''  thar  had 
orter  be  twenty-one  thousan'  five  hundred  dol- 
lars.    Look  if  hit's  thar  !  " 

More  and  more  bewildered,  Fairfax  assured 
himself  that  the  roll  of  ^'  greenbacks  "  contained 
the  exact  sum  mentioned, 

*'  Certainly,"  he  said,  gently,  '^  you  are  right, 
but " 

*'  He  offered  Jim  five  hundred  for  to  go  and 
get  it,"  said  the  woman,  dully,  "  an'  he  got  it. 
Gimme  that  ar  five  hundred  an'  git  on  you'  hoss 
and  fly !  Them  that  killed  him  will  be  ayfter 
you.     Ye  better  make  haste." 

The  ambiguous  wording  of  the  note  grew  plain 
to  Fairfax.  The  writer  knew  the  secret  and  was 
trying  guardedly  (for  the  paper  might  fall  into 
hostile  hands)  to  help  him  to  his  father's  money. 
But  the  rest  was  as  dark  as  ever ;  he  was  only  sure 
that  he  could  not  leave  the  widow  of  the  man 
who  had  been  murdered  on  his  father's  errand  in 
such  a  plight.     So  he  told  her. 

Her  tense  mood  had  snapped  the  instant  her 
search  ended,  and  she  was  sitting  on  the  bed  now, 
stroking  the  dead  man's   face   and  whispering  in 


EXPIATION.  19 

the  deaf  ears  pitiful  broken  sentences:  "  Ye  know 
I  tole  ye — tew  great  a  risk,  tew  great,  tew  great — 
we  cud  of  made  out-  without  the  money,  Jim,  if 
the  stock  be  gone — but  what'll  I  do  with  the  chil- 
dren, Jim,  without  you?  Oh,  I  cayn't  bar  it!  I 
cayn't !  I  cayn't!  "  And  so  writhed  herself  down 
to  the  floor  and  grovelled  there. 

It  was  a  most  painful  sight  to  see,  but  not  so 
painful  as  to  see  her,  the  next  moment,  totter  to 
her  feet  and  clutch  both  Rutherford's  arms,  fairly 
shaking  him  in  her  deadly  vehemence,  while  her 
voice  rang  through  the  room. 

"  'Twas  Dick  Barnabas  done  it  !  He  fund 
aout  an'  done  it  fur  the  money.  Ye  kin  keep  ever' 
cent  er  that  ar  five  hundred  ef  ye'll  kill  Dick  Bar- 
nabas !     Kill  him,  kill  him  !  " 

*'  Hush,  Mrs.  Fowler,  the  children  will  hear," 
said  Adele,  quietly ;  '*  we'll  kill  him,  sure."  She 
slipped  her  strong  young  arm  about  the  poor 
soul's  waist  and  very  gently  pulled  her  away. 

Fairfax  would  have  pushed  the  five  hundred 
dollars  into  her  hands.  ''  I  will  do  all  I  can  to 
bring  the  assassin  to  justice,"  he  murmured,  feel- 
ing sure  that  he  was  not  saying  the  right  thing, 
but  knowing  nothing  better. 

He  saw  her  eyes  glitter.     ''  I  want  'em  killed !  " 


20  EXPIA  TION. 

she  screamed,  ''killed  and  a  layin'  dead.  I  want 
t'  see  it,  myself  !  " 

"  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  give  you  that  pleasure, 
madam,"  replied  Fairfax,  dryly.  "  Dear  me,  what 
a  Rob  Roy  Macgregor's  wife  sort  of  woman  she 
seems  to  be  !  "  he  was  thinking. 

"An'  I'll  holp  you,  mister,"  piped  a  shrill  little 
voice.  It  was  the  boy,  who  had  stolen  back  and 
was  listening,  unperceived. 

"  In  this  extraordinary  country  the  very  babes 
seem  to  thirst  for  blood,"  thought  Fairfax. 

The  boy  was  a  sallow,  white-haired  lath  of  a 
youngster,  such  as  one  may  see  by  the  dozen  in 
the  Arkansas  river  bottoms,  but  his  insignificant 
presence  dilated  with  passion.  He  went  on  : 
"  Baby  an'  Jim's  t'  sleep,  an'  sis  is  a  gyardin'  of 
'em.  I  tole  'er  the  big  bear  'd  git  her,  ef  she  come 
outer  the  room.  I — I  know  suthin'  she'' — he 
looked  at  his  mother — "  doan'  know." 

"Tell  us,  Bud,  honey,"  Adele  said,  laying  a 
white  hand  on  the  sharp  little  shoulder.  So  the 
boy  told:  "Yestiddy  evenin',"^^  ayfter  you  come, 
'baout  a  hour,  I  reckon  ;  I  ben  aout  in  the  patch 
snatchin'  cotton  ;  an'  I  heerd  two  bosses  acomin'. 

*  There  is  no  afternoon  South.  Morning,  evening,  and  night 
are  the  parts  of  day. 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION.  2 1 

One  on  'em  was  that  thar  big  black  with  a  blazed 
face " 

"  Dick  Barnabas'  horse!  "  cried  Adele. 

"  Yaas  ma'am  ;  I  ben  sorter  skeered  up,  an'  I  hid 
'hind  the  cotton  so  they  all  didn't  see  me,  an'  they 
warn't  nare  critter  raoun',  an'  Dick  he  got  off  his 
hoss  an'  projicked  raoun  the  yeard  w'ilst  you  all 
ben  in  the  haous,  ean'  I  cudn't  git  tew  ye.  Then 
he  went  back  an'  they  all  rid  off  agin."  The  poor 
wife  of  the  murdered  man  pushed  her  hair  off  her 
forehead,  struggling  to  catch  the  meaning  of  the 
boy's  words. 

"How  came  ye  didn't  tole  me?"  said  she, 
"  ye'd  orter." 

"  I  tole  paw,  right  straight." 

''What  d'  he  say?" 

"  Nuthin' ;  jes'  whistled.  That  thar  ain't  all. 
Paw  done  suthin'  you  uns  doan'  know.  He  came 
out  'fore  he  went  off ;  an'  he  guv  me  a  right  nice 
sheet  of  paper  an'  a  pencil.  Sayd  he  taken  'em 
frum  Miss  Delia.  An'  he  axed  me  write  on  it.  I 
'member  whut  I  writ.  'Twar  like  this— jes'  good's 
I  cud  write.  '  Dear  Cunnell,  the  money  is  gone, 
yestiddy,  by' — then  he  made  me  make  some  queer 
raound  tricks  on  the  paper;  sayd  they  didn't  mean 
nuthin',  but  they  all  would  reckon  they  did — an* 


22  EXP  I  A  TION, 

the  rest  war  '  Look  aout !  '  an'  it  ben  signed  by 
two  big  crosses.     That's  all." 

"What  did  your  paw  do  with  the  letter,  Bud?" 
said  Delia. 

"  He  put  it  insider  the  money  belt  he  got  frum 
the  Yankees  when  he  ben  payroled." 

Adele  stooped  over  the  form  on  the  bed.  "  The 
belt  is  gone,"  she  said,  quietly  ;  "  I  thought  as 
much.  Oh,  it's  plain  enough.  He  didn't  tell  us 
of  the  danger,  he  only  told  us  that  he  would  put 
on  those  old  boots  and  rags  instead  of  stockings, 
because  he  might  meet  some  of  those  villains  and 
they  would  be  for  robbing  him,  and  would  find  the 
money  stripping  his  clothes.  But  he  knew  all  the 
time,  and  he  took  that  letter  to  mislead  them  and 
save  the  money,  whatever  happened  to  him.  Oh, 
while  there  is  a  Rutherford  living  we  will  never 
forget  how  he  laid  down  his  life  for  us;  nor  shall 
his  wife  and  children  want  while  we  have  anything 
left." 

"  An'  you  all  will  kill  Dick  Barnabas  ? "  the 
wife  cried,  '*  you  will  ?  " 

''  We  will,"  said  Adele,  between  firm  lips,  "  I 
swear  it."     She  raised  her  right  hand. 

"  We  all  sw'ar  it !  "  squeaked  the  boy's  shrill, 
excited  voice. 


EXP  I  A  TION.  23 

Their  hands  were  in  the  air,  even  Fairfax's, 
who  felt  the  melodramatic  twang  of  it  all  as 
jarring. 

The  picture  remained  with  him  his  life  through  : 
a  bare  room  where  the  unplastered  walls  and 
uncarpeted  floor  were  of  the  same  rough  boards ; 
huge  logs  crackling  and  spouting  flame  in  the 
great  crooked  fireplace  ;  and  the  fire-light,  rather 
than  the  feeble  glow  of  the  lamp,  displaying  the 
table  spread  for  supper ;  the  ''  split-bottom  " 
chairs,  the  coarse,  bright  quilt  that  had  been 
half-wrapped  about  an  indistinct  and  distorted 
shape,  the  white  pillows  shining  beneath  a 
ghastly  head,  and,  back  in  the  shadow,  these 
dark  figures  with  their  uplifted  hands  and  glist- 
ening eyeballs.  Enough,  also,  of  the  atmosphere 
of  the  studio  (the  elder  Fairfax  was  an  artist) 
had  aiTected  young  Rutherford's  sensibilities  to 
cause  a  quick  perception  of  the  grace  of  Delia's 
pose  and  the  noble  lines  of  her  neck  and  shoul- 
ders. 

"  We  swear  it,"  they  said,  together,  Fairfax's 
lips  moving  with  the  others. 

"  Now,  Cousin  Fairfax,"  said  Adele,  all  emotion 
disappearing  from  her  manner,  "  you  must  go." 

''  And  leave  you  here  alone  with  the  chance  of 


24  EXP  I  A  TION, 

those  scoundrels  returning,"  cried  Fairfax.  "  No, 
thanks,  Adele  ;  you  will  have  to  submit  to  my 
society  for  to-night." 

''  But  you  must  go,  Cousin  Fair,"  said  she, 
quietly  ;  ''  there  is  almost  no  show  of  Barnabas 
troubling  us;  we  have  no  money.  He  don't 
know  of  the  five  hundred  dollars  you  have  left 
here.  He  thinks  it  has  gone  to  Unk'  Ralph. 
Thafs  why  you  must  go,  Cousin  Fair,  he  may 
need  you  the  worst  kind,  and  I  don't  need  you 
the  least  bit  on  earth." 

"  But  if  you  should  be  attacked  ?"  The  young 
man  was  torn  between  two  motives.  He  must 
save  his  father,  yet  how  could  he  leave  this  deli- 
cate girl  to  such  unspeakable  risks. 

'*  I  reckon  we  can  make  out,"  said  Adele ; 
'■'  can't  we.  Bud  ?  " 

"  I  reckon,"  said  the  solemn  boy  ;  "  she  killed  a 
wild-cat  onct.  I  kin  shoot,  too ;  an'  we  know 
a  place  in  the  woods  to  hide." 

''  That's  so.  Cousin  Fair,"  Adele  added  ;  "  don't 
wait  here,  fly  back  to  Montaigne.  I  don't  need 
you,  and  Uncle  Ralph  does,  for  I  expect  they  will 
have  gone  straight  there.  Oh,  Fm  sending  you 
into  danger,"  she  said,  choking,  "  but  it's  your 
place  to  help  him  !  " 


EXP  I  A  TION.  25 

"An'  you'll  fotch  a  heap  more  danger  on  we 
uns,  mister,"  said  the  boy,  bluntly,  "  jes'  a  bein' 
here,  than  you'll  be  holp.  Fur  Dick '11  be  ayfter 
yoii  nex'." 

That  argument  conquered.  Five  minutes  later 
the  bay  mare  was  carrying  Fairfax  swiftly  through 
the  night. 


11. 


THE  plantation  of  Montaigne  is  on  the  Black 
River.  High  hills  roll  back  from  one 
shore,  the  rich,  flat  "  bottom  land  "  darkens  the 
other  with  its  exhaustless  forest  of  gum  and 
cypress.  Long  ago  the  old  house  W3fs  burned  ; 
but  in  Colonel  Rutherford's  day  it  was  the  great 
house  of  all  the  country  round.  Where  the  forest 
receded — for  a  mere  breathing  space,  as  it  were 
— -stood  the  little  settlement,  while  from  a  knoll 
crowned  with  sycamores  the  planter's  house  over- 
looked the  plantation.  A  beetling  roof  shaded 
the  piazza,  that  is  to  say,  the  upper  story  of  the 
piazza,  which  was  in  two  stories  in  front  of  the 
house,  having  a  lattice  below  where  honeysuckle 
climbed  and  sent  out  floating  tendrils  to  grasp 
the  rude  pillars  above,  and  being  bisected  by  a 
wide,  open  hall — -"gallery,"  such  a  hall  is  named 
in  Arkansas.  The  gallery,  when  Colonel  Ruther- 
ford ruled  at   Montaigne,  bore  the  semblance  of 


EXP  I  A  TION.  27 

a  museum  of  arms.  There,  used  to  hang  the 
shot-guns,  rifles,  revolvers,  and  powder-horns; 
there,  were   stored   hatchets,  meat-saws,  and  axes 

supposing  them  to  be  in  their  appointed  place, 

which,  to*  be  sure,  was  not  the  most  Hkely  thing 
in  the  world  on  a  plantation;  and  there,  swung 
all  the  finery  of  a  Southern  rider,  in  saddle,  spurs, 
and  blanket— truly  a  pretty  sight.  Not  so 
pretty,  I  dare  say,  were  the  heaps  of  flour- 
sacks  and  meal-bags  and  the  like  stores  of  pro- 
visions which  Aunt  Hizzie,  the  cook,  never 
would  keep  in  any  other  spot  than  the  "back 
gallery ; "  or  her  dingy  and  tousled  bunches  of 
yarbs  depending  from  the  ceiling  ;  and,  certainly, 
nothing  pretty,  only  dark  mystery,  occupied  that 
corner  shelf  whereon,  from  a  time  so  far  back 
that  no  memory  of  the  young  Rutherfords  ran 
to  the   contrary,  had    rested  Aunt   Hizzie's  ''  mix- 

teries." 

Aunt  Hizzie  herself  regularly  swallowed  any 
drugs  left  by  the  family,  "to  sabe  dem ;  "  and 
there  was  a  tradition  that  she  had  been  cured  of  a 
sorrowful  attack  of  "  de  conjure  sickness  "  by  the 
half-bottle  of  horse  liniment  that  Rafe  Ruther- 
ford threw  into  the  ash-barrel. 

"  My    word,"    she    was    overheard    to    narrate. 


28 


EXP  I  A  TION, 


"  dat    ar    ben    de    mos'    powerfullis    mixtery    dat 

ebber    done    pass    my    lips.       Hit    strike    me    so 

heavy   I'se   a  wrastlin'  wid   it   de   enjurin'   night. 

But  it  sho'  sen'  de  sickness  off  a  runnin'.     Bress 

de  Lawd,  I 
ain't  got 
take  no 
mo  ! 

Aunt  Hiz- 
zie,  in  her 
white  t  u  r- 
ban  (econo- 
m  i  c  a  1  1  y 
made  out  of 
a  castaway 
flour-sack), 
with  a  blue 
apron  t  r  y- 
ingto  define 
a  waist  for 
her  rotund 
shape,   w  a  s 

always  a  figure  in   the  gallery  when  dinner  was 

under  way. 

On  one  side  of  the  gallery  was  the  dining-room, 

unplastered,  as  were  all  the  rooms,  but  painted, 


EXPIA  TION.  29 

and  having  a  wainscoting  put  up  by  a  clever 
carpenter  from  the  North,  in  the  Rutherfords' 
palmy  days.  He  it  was  who  built  the  tall  side- 
board in  the  wall,  which  made  the  expensive 
black  walnut  sideboard  from  Little  Rock  look 
like  a  dwarf  craning  its  neck  up  at  a  giant. 
''Before  the  war"  the  sideboards  held  a  glit- 
tering show  of  glass  and  silver.  Hues  of  tawny 
brown  and  amber  and  dusky  reds  gleamed  like 
jewels  in  old-fashioned  decanters,  welcome  to 
every  comer. 

All  the  rooms  were  on  the  same  generous 
scale,  high-studded,  with  wide  windows  and  deep- 
throated  fireplaces,  big  enough  to  hold  half  a 
forest  ;  and  relics  of  the  faded  pomp  of  old  Vir- 
ginia days  were  scattered  among  the  primitive 
furniture  of  a  new  country,  suggesting  gold  em- 
broidery (a  thought  tarnished)  on  a  linsey-woolsey 
gown. 

There  were  signs  of  a  woman's  presence  also, 
fresh  curtains  draping  the  windows  (by  this  time 
darned  with  a  pathetic  care),  bunches  of  swamp 
hackberries  and  holly  twigs  in  showy  vases  bought 
on  some  of  the  Colonel's  trips  to  New  Orleans  or 
Memphis,  a  little  flutter  of  feminine  fancies  in 
needlework  over   tables   or  chairs.     And,   on  the 


30  EXP  I  A  TION. 

library  walls,  three  expensive  frames  of  dingy- 
gilt  enclosed  three  landscapes  in  oil,  painted  by 
the  present  Mrs.  Rutherford  when  young.  They 
all  had  deep-blue  skies  with  cotton-wool  clouds, 
and  a  rolling  green  landscape  and  puffy  dark 
trees.  In  fact,  they  were  about  as  dreadful  as 
even  a  young  lady's  work  can  be  ;  but  it  was  the 
custom  of  the  Colonel  to  sit  and  smoke  before 
them,  and  contemplate  them  with  innocent  pride. 
From  thence,  most  commonly,  his  eyes  would  go 
(after  a  second's  pause  before  his  father  in  his 
Mexican  War  regimentals)  to  the  row  of  the 
three  former  mistresses  of  Montaigne. 

The  first  two  were  rosy  and  smiling  young  ma- 
trons, wearing  their  hair  (black  or  yellow)  in  short 
round  curls,  and  shrugging  their  plump  shoulders 
out  of  their  low-necked  frocks ;  but  the  third  Mrs. 
Rutherford  had  been  painted  by  another  hand. 
Fairfax  Rutherford,  during  their  brief  betrothal, 
had  made  this  picture.  He  had  painted  her,  a 
slender  girl  in  a  white  frock,  plucking  flowers  in 
an  arbor,  and  smiling  over  her  shoulder  at  some 
unseen  comer.  Composition  and  handling  were 
as  crude  as  the  treatment  was  ambitious ;  but 
perhaps  because  the  artist's  heart  was  in  the  work 
he    had    succeeded    where    a    more    skilful    hand 


EXPIATION.  31 

might  have  failed,  and  captured  the  evanescent 
and  pensive  loveliness  of  his  subject.  Long  after- 
ward, in  a  moment  of  expansion,  Fairfax  said 
of  his  brother's  wives:  ''Ralph  was  married  by 
father  to  his  first,  his  second  married  him,  but  he 
married  poor  Daisy." 

''And  the  fourth  Mrs.  Rutherford?"  asked  the 
friend. 

Fairfax  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Oh,  she  just 
happened,"  said  he.  "  My  brother  is  the  most 
chivalrous  of  men,  and  Mrs.  Peyton  Rutherford 
was  his  second-cousin's  widow  without  a  penny. 
He  married  her  to  take  care  of  her ;  and  really  it 
hasn't  proved  such  a  bad  arrangement ;  she  is  a 
silly  sort  of  creature,  but  she  has  done  very  well 
by  Ralph." 

Besides  the  pictures  the  library  walls  were  ful"- 
ther  adorned  by  what  in  ante-bellum  days  was 
known  as  a  "landscape  paper,"  representing  in- 
numerable castles  on  the  Rhine.  There  was  one 
drawback,  however,  to  the  impressive  beauty  of 
this  paper ;  inasmuch  as  the  plantation  painter 
who  hung  it,  being  new  to  the  business,  had  mis- 
placed some  of  the  rolls,  a  large  proportion  of  the 
castles  were  made  to  stand  on  their  heads.  The 
library,  like   the  other   rooms,  had   an  enormous 


32  EXPIATION. 

fireplace  and  a  cypress  mantel  painted  black. 
Library  may  seem  rather  a  courtesy  title  for  a 
room  containing  only  a  single  case  of  books ;  but 
there  had  been  a  library  in  his  Virginia  home,  and 
a  library  the  Colonel  would  have  in  Arkansas. 
The  book-shelves  held  such  books  as  Montaigne's 
''  Essays,"  the  '^  Waverley  Novels,"  the  poems  of 
Tom  Moore  and  Lord  Byron  (that  was  how  the 
Colonel  referred  to  them),  Shakespeare's  works 
and  Milton's  "  Paradise  Lost,"  Macaulay's  *'  His- 
tory of  England,"  some  old  volumes  of  Congres- 
sional Reports,  presented  by  friends  in  "  the 
House,"  "Youatt  on  the  Horse,"  the  "Medical 
Encyclopaedia,"  and  "  Niles's  Register." 

The  Colonel  (when  he  Avas  ill  or  of  a  rainy  Sun- 
day) would  occasionally  dip  into  the  other  books ; 
but  Montaigne,  according  to  his  wife,  he  read 
**  every  day  in  the  world."  And  she  was  sure  she 
couldn't  imagine  why,  because  it  certainly  was  a 
scandalous  book,  and  the  Colonel  was  the  most 
moral  of  men  ;  he  wouldn't  even  repeat  any  of 
those  wicked  stories  gentlemen  are  so  fond  of  tell- 
ing among  themselves — not  unless  they  were  very 
funny  indeed.  Doubtless  the  honest  man,  of  his 
own  motion,  had  hardly  discovered  the  '*  Essays  ;  " 
but  he  inherited  Michel  Montaigne,  like  the  fam- 


EXPIA  TION.  33 

ily  prejudices,  his  traditions  of  honor,  and  his 
father's  sword.  His  own  edition  (the  EngHsh 
translation  of  Coste,  A.D.  1759)  was  bequeathed 
to  him  by  his  grandfather,  a  man  of  scholarly 
tastes,  for  whom  he  always  entertained  a  tender 
affection,  and  who  valued  the  genial  old  wit  and 
gossip,  and  often  would  season  his  own  conversa- 
tion with  Montaigne's  high  flavors. 

At  first  Ralph  Rutherford  read  for  the  sake  of 
the  old  man  and  his  comments,  pencilled  here  and 
there.  It  was  a  labor  of  reverence  and  gratitude. 
But  presently,  from  poring  over  the  book  he 
began  to  admire  it ;  at  last,  to  love  it,  as  only  the 
men  of  few  books  love  their  favorite.  Many  was 
the  doughty  battle  that  he  had  fought  with  his 
chief  crony,  a  Presbyterian  minister  who  owned  a 
farm  hard  by,  concerning  the  "  Essays."  Parson 
Collins  called  it  a  profligate  book,  and  gave  Mon- 
taigne no  quarter.  It  was  a  sly  delight  to  the 
Colonel  to  cull  virtuous  maxims  or  worldly  sense 
from  his  treasure,  and  display  them,  unlabelled, 
until  the  parson  was  ensnared  to  praise  them, 
when  he  would  remark :  "  Yes,  sir ;  Montaigne 
usually  is  sound.  Glad  you  approve  of  him  !  " 
"  Tut,  tut,   Ralph  !  "    the  parson  used  to    answer 

warmly,    "  of   course    he  has    some  decent    senti- 
3 


34  "  EXP  I  A  TION. 

ments ;  but  approve  of  that  atheistical,  unprinci- 
pled old  rake,  no,  sir,  never  !  I'd  be  ashamed  to 
read  him  !  " 

But  as  for  the  Colonel,  he  was  vainer  of  his 
knowledge  of  Montaigne  than  of  his  shooting, 
which  is  a  good  deal  to  say  in  the  backwoods. 
He  liked  to  quote  from  the  ''  Essays,"  though  he 
seldom  stuck  closely  to  the  text,  and  he  told  Mon- 
taigne's classical  fables  with  a  beautiful  faith. 
But  his  crowning  proof  of  affection  was  to  give 
the  essayist's  name  to  his  plantation. 

A  few  of  the  books  overflowed  into  the  combi- 
nation book-case  and  writing-desk  which  the  Colo- 
nel called  his  '*  secretary."  He  was  sitting  before 
it  on  the  morning  following  Fairfax's  ride.  Mrs. 
Rutherford  had  the  rocking-chair  opposite,  her 
back  to  the  row  of  portraits.  But  this  attitude 
was  from  no  design  ;  she  was  incapable  of  jealousy, 
and  bestowed  the  same  painstaking  dustings  and 
yearly  washings  and  wrapping  in  pink  mosquito 
netting,  which  she  did  upon  her  own  pictures. 
She  did  not  grudge  the  dead  ladies  of  Montaigne 
any  posthumous  affection.  ''  He  likes  me  better 
than  either  of  you,  you  poor  things,"  was  the  un- 
spoken thought,  as  she  sewed  quietly  before  the 
painted  faces,  '*  and   I  reckon  he    cared  more  for 


o 


EXPIATION.  35 

Daisy  than   for  all  three  of  us  together.     Well,  I 
can't  make  ///;;/  quite  like  Peyton  either." 

Perhaps  the  fourth  Mrs.  Rutherford  was  hardly 
the  fool  Fairfax  Senior  esteemed  her,  notwith- 
standing her  silence,  her  inability  to  understand 
epigrams,  and  her  awful  landscapes.  At  any  rate, 
she  was  pleasant  to  look  upon,  being  a  fair,  placid 
woman,  whose  hair  was  still  a  lively  brown,  whose 
cheeks  kept  a  pinkish  tinge,  and  whose  eyes  were 
soft  as  her  voice.  She  was  not  talking  much  this 
morning,  but  at  intervals  the  Colonel  would  look 
up  from  his  book,  and  then  she  would  smile  and 
make  some  remark  out  of  her  thoughts. 

Near  them  was  an  open  window,  for  in  October 
the  Arkansas  sun  will  forget,  for  days,  that  the 
season  is  not  summer. 

A  belated  bluebird  twittered  and  hopped  on  the 
window-sill.  Then  he  rose,  spread  his  wings,  and 
flew  past  the  big  white  store,  over  the  black  chim- 
ney of  the  gin  and  the  whitewashed  negro  quar- 
ters, and  grew  into  a  black  speck  above  the 
cypress  wall  beyond. 

The  Colonel's  eye  followed  the  mite  and  his 
brow  contracted.  Only  a  little  beyond  the  brake 
was  the  grassy  field  where  the  white  headstones 
stood  guard  over  his    dead  wives    and    the    four 


36  EXP  I  A  TION. 

little  children  who  had  died  ;  but  the  Colonel  was 
thinking  that  his  two  tall  boys  lay  far  from  their 
kindred.  The  wife  watching  him  could  have 
echoed  his  sigh,  because  she,  in  her  turn,  thought 
how  her  husband  was  changed.  ''  His  hair  is 
right  gray,"  she  said  to  herself,  sadly,  '*  and  he 
stoops ;  he  never  did  stoop  before." 

The  Colonel's  massive  head,  with  its  curly  silver 
hair,  thick  as  a  boy's,  was  bent  slightly,  but  not 
for  better  seeing  ;  no,  Ralph  Rutherford's  brilliant 
black  eyes  could  catch  the  glint  of  a  "  'possum's  " 
fur  by  moonlight  still.  The  eyes  were  gentle  and 
kind  as  well  as  brilliant,  and  held  a  twinkle  of 
humor ;  Colonel  Rutherford  being,  in  fact,  the 
famous  story-teller  of  the  country,  and  loving  a 
good  joke  better  than  bread.  He  was  a  keen 
hunter  also,  and  the  best  rider  in  his  regiment, 
which  need  not  disparage  hundreds  of  good  horse- 
men. Rather  below  than  above  the  common 
stature,  his  figure  inclined  to  heaviness,  but 
showed  iron  muscles  in  the  deep  chest  and  long 
arms.  His  face,  fringed  by  a  short  gray  beard, 
was  a  round  oval ;  the  chin  and  jaws  were  square, 
but  the  mouth  was  small,  the  nose  delicate,  and 
the  brows  candid  and  beautiful.  There  was  about 
the   whole    air   of    the    man    an    extraordinarily 


EXP  I  A  TION.  37 

winning  expression  of  frankness  and  humanity, 
though  just  now  the  features  were  darkened  into 
sadness. 

*'  He  ain't  reading,  he's  studying,"  thought  Mrs. 
Rutherford,  "  always  studying  about  the  boys. 
Oh,  dear,  if  we'd  only  had  a  child !  Maybe  it 
wouldn't  have  been  a  boy,  though,  and  Delia's 
like  his  own  daughter.  But  a  little  boy — he'd  be 
fifteen,  now.  Well,  there's  Fair."  She  changed  a 
sigh  into  a  smile,  as  women  learn  to  do,  and  said 
aloud  :  "  I  reckon  there  was  a  crowd  round  the 
mill  this  morning  when  they  heard  about  the  meal." 

The  Colonel  nodded,  his  face  brightening.  "  You 
may  say  so.  I  didn't  know  there  were  so  many 
folks  left  in  the  country.  We  haven't  enough  left 
to  feed  a  chicken.  " 

**  Dear  me.  Colonel,  I  hope  you  left  enough  for 
ourselves,"  cried  Mrs.  Rutherford,  all  the  house- 
keeper aroused. 

*'  Oh,  Aunt  Hizzie  took  care  of  that,"  answered 
the  Colonel,  laughing.  ''  She  had  Unk'  Nels  on 
hand  with  a  wheelbarrow  plumb  full  of  sacks. 
But  those  folks,  they  did  seem  terrible  pleased 
to  get  the  meal,  and  specially  the  flour.  The 
poor  critters  have  been  eating  the  wheat  in  the 
dough." 


38  EXPIA  TIOIV. 

"  I  hope  you  didn't  take  any  of  our  money," 
said  Mrs.  Rutherford. 

'*  Greenbacks  or  gold,"  said  her  husband.  Then 
he  laughed.     "  What  I  did  take,"  added  he. 

*'  I  expect  you  let  them  have  it  whether  they 
had  money  or  not." 

"  Well,  yes,  ma'am ;  those  that  had  a  little 
money  wanted  to  get  close  to  me  for  the  first 
show  ;  but,  says  I,  '  N-no  ;  p-poor  folks  get  just  as 
hungry  as  rich  !  '  " 

The  Colonel  always  stuttered  a  little  when  ex- 
cited. 

"  We  will  all  be  as  poor  as  the  rest  of  them, 
soon,  if  you  go  on  that  way,  Ralph." 

"  We  are  better  off  than  most  of  them,  honey," 
answered  the  Colonel,  easily  ;  "  there's  that 
twenty " 

But  Mrs.  Rutherford  stopped  him  with  a  fright- 
ened look,  drawing  her  chair  nearer. 

"  There  ain't  a  wall  with  plaster  on  it  in  the 
house.  Colonel ;  do  remember  that." 

"  Nor  there  ain't  a  thief  on  this  plantation 
either,  black  or  white,  Hettie.  Oh,  don't  you 
worry  ;  Delia's  all  right  at  Fowler's,  and  she  and 
Jim  will  be  round  this  evening,  peart  as  peart." 

"  Well,  I  hope  so,"  answered  Mrs.   Rutherford, 


EX  PI  A  TION.  39 

her  voice  lowered  to  a  whisper.     "  Has  Dick  been 
doing  anything  lately  ?  " 

"Devilling  round  about  as  usual,"  said  the  Colo- 
nel ;  "  heard  he  hung  a  poor  Jew  pedler  down  on 
Cache ^  t'other  day.  He'd  sold  his  cotton,  and 
Dick  'lowed  he  had  ought  to  have  some  money. 
'Twas  told  me  they  hung  him  up  four  times, 
and  ever'  time  they  let  him  down  he  howled  for 
mercy  but  he  wouldn't  tell  a  word  about  the 
money,  and  the  last  time  they  let  him  down  he 
was  dead,  and  they  couldn't  do  no  more  with  him. 
They're  fiends  incarnate,  those  fellers,  and  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  this  cursed  leg  I'd  have  had  Dick 
swinging  !  Look  at  it,  we  all  sitting  down  at  home 
a-shaking  w-waiting  for  Dick  to  come  and  murder 
us  !     /shan't  wait " 

"  Oh,  hush  !  "  cried  the  lady,  imploringly  ;  "'  if 
anybody  was  to  hear  and  tell,  Dick  would " 

*'  He — w-wouldn't  do  nothing  more  than  he's 
aiming  to  do  now,  my  dear!"  was  the  Colonel's 
answer,  with  a  chuckle  ;  "  he's  as  mad  as  he  can 
be,  anyhow,  and  has  been  ever  since  he  lit  out  of 
the  army  to  escape  being  shot.  A  b-bad  bargain 
for  Arkansas  he  wasn't,  too." 

*  Cache  is  a  small  river.  They  never  say  the  Cache,  but 
Cache  simply. 


40  EXP  I  A  TION. 

"  Oh,  dear,  I  wish  he  had  been,"  sighed  Mrs. 
Rutherford. 

"  There's  a  right  smart  of  scoundrels  in  the 
country  to  carry  on  the  devil's  trade  besides  Dick 
Barnabas;  but  he's  got  a  heap  of  'em  with  him, 
and  once  hang  his  gang  up  we  may  have  peace. 
The  others  are  just  ornery  scamps,  not  sense 
enough  to  keep  from  stealing  from  each  other  ; 
but  D-Dick  has  a  head  on  him.  And  I'm  not  de 
nying  that  Dick  has  his  good  qualities." 

''  Dick  Barnabas  !  " 

*'  Yes,  ma'am,  Dick  Barnabas ;  they  ain't  very 
many,  but  they're  like  old  Aunt  Tennie's  teeth ; 
she  ain't  got  but  three,  you  know,  but  they're  on 
opposite  sides,  so  she  makes  out  to  do  a  p-power 
of  eating  with  'em.  That's  the  way  with  Dick's 
good  points,  not  many,  but  they're  jest  where 
they'll  do  the  most  good.  He's  brave  as  the 
devil,  and  he's  tolerable  kind  to  beasts  (knows  a 
heap  about  them,  too),  and  he'll  stick  to  his  bar- 
gains. I  don't  think  I  ever  knew  Dick  to  rue 
back.  Not  even  his  bad  trade  with  Parson  Col- 
lins. Say,  Hettie,  did  I  ever  tell  you  about  that 
trade  ?  " 

"  If  you  did  I  must  have  forgotten,"  said  Mrs. 
Rutherford,  who  had  heard  the  story  half  a  dozen 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION.  41 

times ;  but  it  was  true  enough  also  that  she  did 
forget  her  husband's  stories  ;  and  true  or  not,  the 
good  Christian  soul  could  have  found  warrant 
with  her  conscience  for  stretching  a  point  if  she 
might  help  him  lose  his  sorrows,  even  for  a  little 
while. 

He  settled  himself  comfortably  in  his  chair, 
with  a  twinkle  of  the  eye.  "  Must  'a'  been  six  or 
seven  years  ago  that  it  happened,"  said  he.  "  Yes, 
ma'am,  I  remember  it  was  'bout  two  years  after 
Parson  lost  his  wife,  and  there  was  talk  of  his 
marrying  the  Widow  Bainbridge  ;  I  don't  believe 
he  ever  did  think  of  her,  but  you  know  the  talk. 
That's  how  I  fix  the  date.  She  married  old  man 
Warner  in  the  spring,  and  this  was  the  fall  before 
— not  that  it's  any  consequence  on  earth. 

**  Dick,  he  was  renting  of  me  then,  a  m-mean 
Jew  Injun,  same  like  he  is  now,  and  getting  most 
his  livelihood  swapping  horses.  Parson  had  a  big 
white  mule,  they  called  her  Ma'y  Jane.  She 
wasn't  none  too  young,  but  she  was  terrible  strong 
and  spry,  and  the  most  remarkable  animal  for 
in-intelligence  you  ever  saw.  She  wasn't  exactly 
z7/,^  as  they  call  it  down  here,  but  she  had  got   a 

*  111 — ill-tempered,  cross.     They  say  of  a  patient  in  Arkansas, 
"  He  must  be  getting  better,  he  is  so  ill!  " 


42  EXPIA  TION. 

right  smart  of  tricks   like    all   those  old   mules — 
only,  being  so  much  cuter,  she  had  more. 

"  One  of  her  monkey-shines  was  to  always 
refuse  to  go  past  a  fence  corner.  I  don't  know 
why,  but  you  couldn't  get  her  past  a  fence  corner 
no  way  on  earth.  If  you  pushed  her  too  hard, 
she'd  begin  rearing  and  kicking,  and  finally  lay 
plumb  down  on  the  ground,  her  four  legs  kicking 
away  like  boiling  water.  The  only  way  v^ith  her 
was  to  get  off  and  pat  her  and  much  her,  and  lead 
her  round  the  corner.  Then  she  was  all  right, 
and  would  step  out  right  well  until  the  next  cor- 
ner. Another  trick  was,  she'd  take  a  notion  into 
her  head  that  she  had  done  travelling  enough  in 
one  direction,  and  if  you  didn't  politely  turn 
round,  she'd  like's  not  run  you  spang  up  against  a 
fence-rail  and  scrape  your  leg.  But  the  blamedest 
fool  notion  she  had  was  about  the  dinner-horn  ; 
whenever  she'd  hear  the  Parson's  horn  go,  no 
matter  where  the  critter  might  be— middle  of  the 
row  ploughing,  maybe — off  she'd  go,  just  the 
same,  bullet  line  back  to  the  barn.  All  such  like 
tricks  made  her,  in  spite  of  her  cuteness,  a  sorter 
uneasy  beast  for  to  have  on  a  fyarm.  So,  Parson 
'lowed  he'd  sell  her.  He  tried  to  sell  her  to  me, 
and  for  some  reasons  I'd  have  liked   right  well   to 


EX  PI  A  TION. 


43 


buy  the  pesky  critter.  We'd  a  screw  press  then, 
and  I  never  did  see  a  mule  on  earth  could  pull 
down's  big  a  bale  as  Ma'y  Jane,  but.  Dad  gum  'er, 
— b-begging  your  pardon  for  the  expression,  my 
dear — if  you  left  her   by  her   lone  a  minnit,  she'd 


^'I.Wf    ""y^^^""      r^^'"" 

"  Ma'y  Jane's  little  playful  ways  with  fences  and  dinner-horns." 

break  the  gears,  and  jest  naturally  split  the  mud 
to  the  byarn.  That's  Ma'y  Jane!  So  I  wouldn't 
buy.  Well,  Parson  he  didn't  know  quite  how  he 
could  fix  it.  Happened  one  day  he  was  at  the 
store  and  praising  of  Ma'y  Jane,  as  usual,  and,  as 


44  EXP  I  A  TION. 

his  ill-luck  would  have  it — ^providentially,  I  dare- 
say Pearson  would  put  it — Dick  Barnabas  came 
along  with  a  load  of  cotton.  He  saw  the  mule,  and 
Parson  looks  out  of  the  window,  and  there's  Mas- 
ter Dick  studying  of  his  mule.  He  nev^er  let  on. 
But  he  wags  his  finger  at  Unk'  Nels  and  asks  if 
we  all  didn't  want  Ma'y  Jane  up  to  the  press  for 
a  spell  that  morning.  Well,  of  course  we  did,  for 
she  could  work  powerful  well.  And  just  as  Unk' 
Nels  was  going  off  Parson  says,  carelessly,  '  Oh, 
Unk'  Nels!  If  Mr.  Dick  Barnabas  should  look 
round  to  see  how  she  can  pull,  I  trust  you  all 
won't  putt  her  under  a  bad  character.'  You 
had  ought  to  seen  that  nigger's  teeth  flash ;  he 
hopped  onto  the  notion  in  a  second.  All  the 
niggers  jest  naturally  hated  Dick  always,  he  used 
to  knock  'em  about  so.  Well,  directly  Dick 
sa'nters  over  to  the  gin,  where  he  finds  Ma'y  Jane 
pulling  with  all  the  power,  and  every  nigger  prais- 
ing her.  He  gits  her  out  and  looks  her  over — oh, 
we  could  see  him  from  the  store,  riding  her  round 
and  walking  about  her.  Dick  was  of  the  opinion 
nobody  knew  as  much  about  a  horse  or  a  mule  as 
he  did.  In  a  little  while  he  goes  back  to  the  Par- 
son, with  trade  in  his  eye.  Kinder  old  mule; 
how'll    Parson    swap  ?     Well,    Parson    shook    his 


o 


EXP  J  A  rioN.  45 

head,  'lowed  he  wouldn't  trade — valuable  mule, 
very  intelligent,  perfectly  sound,  etc.  'That's  all 
right,  Parson,'  said  Dick,  growing  eager  ;  *  how's 
my  clay  back  hoss?'  'No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Bar- 
nabas,' says  the  Parson  ;  *  looks  like  we  couldn't 
trade,  and  I  must  be  going.'  So  Dick  offered 
some  more,  but  Parson  grew  cooler,  the  hotter  he 
grew.  'I'll  tell  you  all  about  that  mule,  Mr.  Bar- 
nabas,' said  the  Parson,  '  her  good  points  and  her 
bad.'  '  Naw,  ye  don't,'  says  Dick,  '  I  kin  see  fur 
myself,  ye  ain't  no  need  to  praise  the  critter.'  He 
was  so  suspicious  he  'lowed  the  Parson  meant  to 
lie  to  him,  and  he  reckoned  himself  to  be  smarter. 
Well,  so  they  had  it  back  and  forth,  till  finally 
Dick  offered  two  yearling  steers  that  the  Parson 
had  been  trying  to  get.  Now,  Parson  knew  that 
was  the  biggest  kind  of  a  trade,  and  the  rest  of  us 
was  nearly  choking  with  laugh  to  see  Dick  getting 
stuck  so  neatly  ;  but  Parson  wasn't  going  to  seem 
too  eager,  so  he  wanted  a  calf  thrown  in  ;  and 
finally  they  compromised  ;  trade  even,  and  Dick 
fetch  over  the  steers.  He  done  it  that  very  even- 
ing before  sundown,  he  was  so  possessed  to  get 
the  mule.  And  when  he  discovered  Ma'y  Jane's 
little  playful  ways  with  fences  and  dinner-horns, 
he  was  the  maddest  man  you  ever  saw.     He  was 


4^  EXP  I  A  TION. 

rarin'  and  chargin'.  Accused  the  Parson  of  swind- 
ling. I  assure  you,  my  dear,  I  was  within  an  inch 
of  pitching  the  scoundrel  out  of  the  window. 
Would  if  I  hadn't  wanted  to  hear  what  Collins 
would  say.  He  was  as  cool  as  cool.  '  Softly, 
softly,  Mr.  Barnabas,'  says  he,  '  I  told  you  the 
mule  was  intelligent — you  won't  deny  she  is ;  and 
perfectly  sound — well,  ain't  she  ?  And  I  offered 
to  tell  you  her  good  and  her  bad  points,  but  you 
wouldn't  listen.  Is  it  my  fault  you  wouldn't?' 
says  'Parson,  while  the  whole  storeful  of  men 
laughed.  '  But  I'll  tell  you  what,'  says  he,  '  if  you 
want  to  swap  over  again  and  have  it  said  that 
Dick  Barnabas   rued   back,   you   can.'     '  Naw,  by 

;'  never  mind,  Dick   always  did  swear  like  a 

steamboat  captain  ;  he  swore  a  big  oath  and  said 
he  never  had  rued  back,  and  he  never  would. 
The  most  comical  pyart  of  the  story  is.  Parson 
had  been  eying  those  steers  for  all  summer,  and 
wanting  for  Dick  to  trade  for  a  horse  he  had  that 
was  nearly  'bout  a  hundred  years  old  and  a  stump- 
sucker  to  the  bargain,  and  Dick  wouldn't  look  at 
it ;  but  he  got  so  terrible  sick  of  Ma'y  Jane's  dev- 
iltry that  he  traded  her  off  back  to  Parson  for 
that  identical  aged  horse.  It  made  Dick  'most 
sick,  that  trade  did.     He  swore  he  would  get  even 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION,  47 

with    Parson   Collins   if    it    took    him    a    hundred 
years." 

''  I  wonder  he  hasn't  done  Mr.  Collins  a  mean- 
ness before  now,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford. 

''  Oh,  well,"  said  the  Colonel,  gayly,  "  even  gray- 
backs  have  got  to  have  some  excuse,  and  Collins 
is  the  most  popular  man  in  the  country.  Chap- 
lain all  through  the  war  and  mighty  kind  to  our 
boys,  and  brave  as  they  m-make  them.  Then  he 
knows  more  'bout  the  beastis  than  any  man 
around.  He's  doctored  most  everybody's  horse 
or  colt  or  cow — never  charged  a  cent  ;  and  he's  a 
mighty  good,  pious  man,  liberal  and  stirring,  free 
house  to  everybody.  No,  ma'am,  I  don't  guess 
even  Dick  could  get  the  boys  to  do  him  mean 
unless  they  were  to  get  a  heap  of  money  by  it — 
and  Collins  is  poor  as  the  next  man,  nowadays. 
Why,  the  feller  toted  his  own  cotton  to  be 
burned  when  the  order  came.  That's  more  than 
we  did,  honey,  hey  ?  " 

*'  Well,  I  hope  so,  Colonel  Rutherford,"  an- 
swered the  lady.  "  Yon  might  have  made  such  a 
useless  sacrifice,  but  Adele  said  General  Marma- 
duke  and  General  Shelby  hadn't  any  right  to  burn 
our  cotton." 

''  They  did    it    for   the    best,  undoubtedly,  my 


48  EXP  I  A  TION. 

dear ;  still,  it  certainly  was  too  late,  and  it  has 
only  increased  our  hardships  without  helping  the 
Confederacy." 

'^  I  don't  see,  Colonel,  why  you  didn't  wait  and 
have  the  Federal  colonel  who  is  coming  this  way 
bring  our — it." 

"  The  money  ?  "  said  the  colonel,  in  his  jovial 
loud  voice,  and  Mrs.  Rutherford  actually  had  to 
lay  her  slim  hand  over  his  mouth.  He  gallantly 
kissed  the  fingers. 

"  I  would,"  said  he,  "  if  I'd  known  I'd  have 
smashed  my  leg  and  have  to  let  Delia  go  for  me. 
But  it  looked  like  it  was  a  good  chance,  the 
money  coming  far  as  Crowder's  with  the  Yanks  ; 
and  if  I  and  half  a  dozen  men  could  have  gone 
out — but  nobody  will  suspect  Jim,  nobody  knows 
the  money  is  coming,  anyhow.  Oh,  Jim's  safe 
enough.  Don't  you  reckon  he  had  better  go  out 
after  Fair  when  he  comes  ?  " 

"  When  do  you  expect  Fair  ?  " 

"  That's  the  trouble.  I  cayn't  tell.  He  writes 
he  will  start  immediately,  but  when  will  he  get  to 
St.  Louis,  and  from  there  on  here?  Don't  s-see 
what  we  all  can  do  but  wait." 

"  If  Fair  would  only  let  us  know  in  time,"  said 
Mrs.    Rutherford,    *'  there's    a   heap  of   things  he 


EXP  I  A  TIOJV.  49 

could  fetch  us  from  St.  Louis — little  things  he 
could  bring  in  his  saddle-riders,  like  soda  and 
needles  and  pins;  but  I  expect  he  won't  think 
to  do  that.  Pins  we  do  need  the  worst  ;  but, 
now,  pepper  and  spices  and  thread — he  wouldn't 
have  a  bit  of  trouble,  if  we  could  only  get  him 
word.  And  vanilla  extract,  we  have  been  out  of 
such  things  so  long  I've  nearly  forgotten  they 
exist,  and  we  used  to  call  them  necessaries." 

**  Nothing  is  a  necessary  but  salt,"  said  the  Colo- 
nel ;  **  we  have  to  get  that,  some  way,  soon.  If 
it  wasn't  for  the  graybacks  we  could  have  a  boat 
on  the  river  and  supplies  regular.  My  lord,  we're 
licked,  and  every  man  who  ain't  a  c-crazy  fool 
knows  it!  What  is  the  use  of  rarin'  and  chargin' 
round  the  country  and  burning  the  cotton  ? 
These  precious  jewels  of  Dick  Barnabas  are 
enough  sight  worse  than  the  Yankees.  Half  of 
them  d-deserters,  too.  Well,  I  wisht  I  had 
another  chance  at  D-Dick !  " 

There  was   silence    for   a   little   space,  because 

Mrs.    Rutherford  was    absorbed   in    counting    her 

stitches   while  the   Colonel   revolved    fresh   plans 

for  Barnabas's  destruction.    From  them  he  looked 

up  again   at   the   picture  on   the  wall,  the  young 

girl  in  her  white  gown,  with  her  sweet  face.      Had 
4 


50  EXP  I  A  TION. 

he  been  her  lover,  finding  enough  favor  in  her 
sight  to  win  her  heart  from  his  handsome  brother, 
ten  years  younger  than  he  ?  Of  all  his  life,  full 
as  it  had  been  of  robust  exhilaration  and  ambi- 
tion and  emotion,  what  time  had  matched  that 
with  its  sweetness  and  its  pain  !  All  the  inar- 
ticulate poetry  of  the  man's  nature  groped  back- 
ward toward  those  years  when  she  was  with  him. 
Only  three  years ;  Fair  was  a  baby  when  she 
died  ;  he  could  see  the  little  trick  playing  on  the 
floor  with  his  father's  great  boots,  the  sunshine 
on  his  curls.  The  Colonel  uttered  a  sigh  like  a 
groan,  not  conscious  that  he  sighed. 

"  I  reckon  Delia  and  Jim  will  fetch  a  letter 
from  Fair,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  quickly,  drop- 
ping her  count. 

"  He  will  be  grown  a  young  man,"  said  the 
Colonel;  "they  tell  me  he  is  a  young  man  of 
very  distinguished  appearance  and  an  elegant 
gentleman."  The  Colonel's  diction,  become  slip- 
shod during  years  of  careless  living  in  the  wilder- 
ness, had  fits  of  stiffening  into  that  dignity  which 
pertained  to  a  Virginia  gentleman's  speech  when 
he  was  young,  and,  long  ago,  Mrs.  Rutherford 
had  noted  that  such  occasions  of  fine  language 
were  likely  to  accompany  any  mention  of  Fair- 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION.  5  1 

fax.  In  truth,  the  Colonel  was  fonder  and 
prouder  (so  Mrs.  Rutherford  often  thought)  of 
this  lad,  who  had  spent  almost  all  his  life  away, 
than  of  the  dutiful  sons  who  had  never  left  him, 
and  who  had  fought  and  fallen  at  his  side.  She 
knew  that  he  always  carried  Fair's  letters  in  his 
pockets,  ready  to  come  out  for  reading  aloud  to 
any  one  who  might  be  interested  in  them,  and  in 
default  of  such  listener,  to  be  pored  over  and 
chuckled  over  by  the  Colonel  himself.  If  any- 
thing could  have  irritated  her  placid  amiability  it 
would  have  been  her  further  knowledge  that  the 
Colonel  often  had  gone  shabby  himself,  in  order 
to  send  money  to  Fair. 

''And  he  doesn't  need  it  the  least  bit  on  earth," 
was  Mrs.  Rutherford's  silent  comment  ;  "  Fairfax 
Rutherford's  rich  ;  he  gets  enormous  prices  for 
his  pictures,  and  that  rich  old  aunt  left  him  all 
her  New  York  property ;  he  has  ten  times  as 
much  as  poor  Ralph."  But  she  admitted  that  the 
Colonel  only  stinted  himself  for  his  Rachel's  boy, 
he  never  took  from  the  portion  of  Leah's  sons. 

*'  Ralph  is  right  just  and  upright,"  said  Mrs. 
Rutherford,  '  and  I  don't  believe  the  boys  ever 
suspected  he  didn't  love  them  just  as  much  as 
Fair.     They  thought   Fair  was  the  finest  young 


52  EXPIATION, 

gentleman  in  the  world,  too.  Dear  boys,  they 
were  so  good  !  " 

The  poor  lady  felt  the  tears  stinging  her  eye- 
lids, and  rose  up  hastily  on  a  pretext  of  hearing 
Aunt  Hizzie.  She  would  not  have  her  husband 
see  her  wet  eyes.  When  two  people  have  been 
through  deep  sorrow  and  trouble  together,  often 
each,  for  the  other's  sake,  clings  to  a  makeshift  of 
cheerfulness.  It  is  as  if  they  hung  by  a  board 
balanced  over  a  precipice  ;  let  one  loosen  his  hold, 
the  safety-plank  must  fly  up,  and  it  will  be  all 
over  with  the  other. 

"  There's  Hizzie  disputing  with  Unk'  Nels 
again,"  cried  Mrs.  Rutherford.  Then  her  simu- 
lated interest  grew  real,  for  she  caught  a  few 
words. 

**  Bad  news  yoii  reckons,  does  ye  ?  How  come 
ye  ain't  fotch  'im  by  tuh  me  ?  " 

A  mutter  in  a  man's  deeper  tones  was  indistin- 
guishable.    Aunt  Hizzie's  voice  rose  again  : 

''  Naw,  ye  wun't  go  tell  ole  marse  or  ole  miss, 
needer.  'Pears  like  ye  ain't  got  no  sense.  Whut 
ye  sayin'  ?  Ye  talk  so  gross  nobuddy  on  yearth 
kin  foller  you'  wuds — mum — mum — mumble — 
mum  !  Folkses  got  good  sense  cayn't,  let  'lone 
igits.     Lemme  talk  tuh  'im  !  " 


EXPIATION.  53 

Up  went  Hizzie's  voice,  as  if  she  were  talking 
to  a  foreigner  or  a  deaf  man.  ^'  Ye  seekin'  Miss 
Delia,  Slick  Mose  ?  Ole  Miss?  Ole  Miss  fo' 
sho'  ?  Look  at  de  critter,  Nels.  Well,  saJi  !  dar's 
blood  all  over  'im,  sho's  you  bawn,  Nels." 

"  My  Lord,  is  there  more  affliction  for  this  un- 
happy house  ? "  the  Colonel  groaned,  involunta- 
rily struggling  to  rise. 

"  Oh,  hush,"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  soothing 
him,  although  she  was  visibly  paler  and  trembled  ; 
"you  stay  still.  It's  only  Slick  Mose,  I'll  go 
out. 

In  the  gallery  a  negro  man  and  woman  were 
staring  at  a  truly  hideous  figure.  It  was  the 
shape  of  a  man,  ragged,  soaked,  with  blood-stains 
on  the  arms  and  on  the  tattered  shirt  ;  a  crouching 
thin  thing,  bareheaded  and  barefooted  ;  and  wound 
about  the  creature's  neck,  a  gleaming  and  hissing 
snake.  The  face,  with  its  tangle  of  pale  red  hair, 
its  little  vacant  eyes  and  working  mouth,  held  the 
plain  signs  of  Slick  Mose's  unhappy  condition. 
He  was  an  idiot  lad  whom  Mr.  Collins  had  found 
chained  to  a  staple  in  his  father's  yard,  and  had 
given  a  good  mule  to  rescue.  He  divided  his  time 
between  the  plantation  and  Mr.  Collins's  farm, 
and  Adele  Rutherford  was  the  only  person,  save 


o 

cd 

c 


c 


T3 

C 


c 


CD 


u 

(D 

C 


3 


o 

m 

c 
o 

T3 
C 
< 


EXPIATION.  55 

the  minister,  who  had  any  control  over  him. 
These  two  he  would  follow  and  obey  like  a  dog. 
They  understood  the  gibberish  which  passed  for 
speech  with  him.  The  creature  had  a  mania  for 
hiding  things,  and  so  cunningly  that  it  was  the 
rarest  thing  in  the  world  for  them  to  be  found 
unless  Parson  Collins  or  Adele  interfered.  Thanks 
to  them,  his  idiosyncrasy  did  little  mischief. 
Another  trait  was  his  grewsome  liking  for  snakes. 
Between  him  and  all  the  brute  creation  existed 
a  strange  sort  of  understanding,  such  as  some- 
times does  exist  between  the  lowest  order  of 
human  kind  and  animals  ;  but  Mose  peculiarly 
affected  snakes.  Half  the  terror  the  harmless, 
timid  fellow  inspired  (and  it  was  excessive)  was 
due  to  this  trait.  For  the  other  half,  came  his 
extraordinary  physical  agility  and  his  uncanny 
wood  lore,  mocking  the  beasts'  calls  so  well  that 
they  would  answer  him  ;  familiar  with  every  lead 
of  timber-  and  every  glade  in  the  swag;t  climb- 
ing like  a  raccoon  and  diving  like  an  eel.  Mrs. 
Rutherford  shared  the  general  shrinking,  although 
she  had   always  been  kind  to  Mose.     Now  he  ran 

*  Timber  grows  in  kinds  on  the  Black  River,  here  oaks,  now  ash, 
now  gum  ;  such  a  strip  is  called  a  lead, 
f  Low,  damp  place. 


5  6  EXPIATION. 

to  her,  pulled  at  her  gown,  grovelled  at  her  feet, 
and  pointed  toward  the  door,  all  the  while  utter- 
ing a  harsh,  inarticulate  cry.  "  Lada,"  he  re- 
peated numberless  times.  Lada  was  his  word  for 
Adele.  It  was  supposed  to  be  his  effort  to  say 
*'  Lady."  Then,  gesticulating  wildly,  he  poured 
out  a  torrent  of  incoherent  sounds,  of  which  the 
word  "  kill "  was  the  only  one  to  be  distin- 
guished. 

"Who  is  killed?"  cried  Mrs.  Rutherford. 
"Not — not  Delia?"  In  her  sudden  agony  of 
anxiety  she  grasped  Mose's  shoulder. 

He  shook  his  head  violently. 

Instantly  Mrs.  Rutherford's  fears  flew  to  the 
money,  the  loss  of  which,  indeed,  meant  nearly 
ruin  to  them.  "Is  it  Jim  Fowler?"  she  asked; 
"  try,  Mose,  try  to  speak  plain  !  " 

Again  the  idiot  shook  his  head,  and  with  a 
look  of  agony  repeated  "  Parson,"  "  kill,"  and 
"  Fair." 

He  clasped  his  hands  together,  shrieking,  "  Oh, 
Fair!  oh,  Fair!"  He  extended  his  arms,  the 
most  violent  grief  and  horror  depicted  on  his 
countenance.  Finally,  he  hurled  himself  on  his 
knees  and  appeared  to  be  straining  to  lift  some- 
thing from  the  ground. 


o 


EX  PI  A  TION.  57 

''  Dat  Slick  Mose  aimin'  tuh  tell  we  uns  how 
somebuddy  done!  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Hizzie. 

"  Lord  send  nothing  has  happened  to  Fair," 
cried  Mrs.  Rutherford  ;  ''  if  there  has  it  will  kill 
the  Colonel.  But  one  thing  is  sure  ;  he  wants  us 
to  follow  him,  and  we've  got  to  do  it." 


III. 

THE  condition  of  Fairfax's  mind  after  he  left 
Fowler's  house  was  one  of  bewildered  ex- 
citement. Nothing  like  this  experience  had  ever 
been  imagined  by  him  before.  He  was  such  a 
child  when  his  uncle  took  him  that,  to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  he  had  ceased  to  be  an  American. 
His  uncle,  a  very  rich  man  as  well  as  a  distin- 
guished artist,  was  deeply  attached  to  him,  and  he 
had  been  reared  delicately  and  luxuriously. 

Every  one  petted  the  beautiful  boy,  especially 
women.  But  treatment  apt  to  ruin  a  coarser  or 
more  selfish  nature  simply  made  Fairfax  more 
gentle,  and  gave  him  a  pleasurable  impression  of 
all  the  world  being  an  honest  fellow's  friend. 

So  the  lad  flung  his  centimes  to  beggars  and 
enjoyed  their  blessings  even  while  he  smiled  at 
them,  and  looked  frankly  up  into  the  great  ladies' 
eyes,  no  whit  the  worse  for  his  constant  doses  of 
adulation.  He  was  twenty-two  the  other  day, 
never    having  been    in    love.      Naturally,  shrined 


EXPiA  rioN.  59 

in  his  fancy  was  a  radiant,  high-born  creature,  mis- 
tress of  several  languages,  with  a  velvet  voice  and 
a  beautiful  nature,  an  angel  of  varying  nationality  ; 
but  she  was  hardly  more  than  a  dream  of  the  sex, 
the  ''  not  impossible  she  "  of  every  young  man's 
imagination.  And  certainly  the  last  of  women 
whom  he  thought  about  in  such  a  connection  was 
his  homespun  cousin  Adele.  Still,  now  and  again, 
across  the  confusion  of  his  emotions  and  his 
efforts  to  think  the  situation  out  images  would 
flit— a  white  throat  tinted  by  the  firelight,  and  a 
supple  figure  in  a  light  pose,  and  a  rapt  young 
face  flung  back,  and  dark  eyes  flashing.  Her 
head  was  like  Antinous's,  had  Antinous  been  his 
own  sister  and  able  to  shut  his  mouth  tight.  (I 
am  giving  Fairfax's  whimsical  comparison,  not 
mine  ;  I  doubt  whether  Miss  Adele  had  anything 
Greek  about  her  beyond  a  low  forehead  and  a 
straight  nose.) 

She  had  a  wonderfully  sweet  voice,  too — slow 
and  soft,  yet  not  monotonous  ;  really  it  idealized 
the  accent.  And  how  fascinating  was  that  fre- 
quent gesture  of  hers,  opening  the  palms  of  her 
hands  and  flinging  them  out,  with  a  sort  of  gentle 
vehemence  ! 

Somehow  her  poor  gown  only  threw  a  kind  of 


6o  EXP  I  A  TION. 

distinction  about  her  appearance  into  relief.  The 
idea  of  Adele  turning  out  such  a  beauty ! 

All  the  while  Betty  Ward  was  covering  the 
ground  in  gallant  form,  taking  advantage  of  every 
piece  of  solid  footing  to  quicken  her  pace.  He 
had  come  to  the  sandy  high-road  ;  in  a  few  mo- 
ments she  would  be  out  in  the  open,  clear  of  the 
dreary,  overgrown,  murderous  woods.  He  began 
to  think  of  his  father  and  the  old  house,  and  his 
dead  brothers  seemed  to  look  at  him  with  their 
boyish  eyes. 

Why  should  the  mare  tremble  ?  It  was  a  sec- 
ond before  he  realized.  He  had  lurched  forward 
in  the  saddle ;  there  had  been  the  ping  of  a 
bullet,  he  felt  a  stabbing  pain  in  his  shoulder  ; 
then  another  shot  made  a  crackling  noise  ;  he 
was  galloping  on  in  the  dark.  Were  there  pur- 
suers ? 

He  could  not  hear  them  ;  but  on  and  on  the 
frightened  horse  whirled  him,  past  the  black  lines 
of  forest.  It  seemed  to  him  that  they  travelled  a 
long  distance  before  he  was  able,  with  his  useless 
right  arm,  to  control  her  panic. 

Directly  in  front  of  him  he  perceived  a  light, 
which  wavered,  rising  and  sinking  like  a  lantern 
carried    by  a  rider.     Such,  in  fact,  it  was,  for  he 


o 


EXPIATION.  6 1 

could  hear  a  very  good  barytone  voice  singing  an 
old  Presbyterian  hymn : 

"'My  table  thou  hast  furnished, 
In  presence  of  my  foes  ; 
My  head  with  oil  thou  dost  anoint, 
And  my  cup  overflows.' 

*'  Whoa  !  quit  that,  May  Jane  !  " 
Both  riders  fell  to  quieting  their  beasts.     Betty 
Ward    neighed   and  pranced,   and  May    Jane,    a 
large  white  mule,  responded  with  a  great  noise  of 
bray  and  show  of  heels. 

"  Look  a  here,"  shouted  the  mule's  rider,  ''  ain't 
this  Colonel  Rutherford's  Betty  Ward?  Ma'y 
Jane  never  speaks  to  any  other  horse  she  meets 
up  with.     Say,  who  are  you,  sir?  " 

''  Don't  you  know  me,  Mr.  Collins  ?  "  Fairfax, 
who  could  see  the  other  distinctly,  called  back.  "  I 
am  Fairfax  Rutherford." 

With  a  bound  Ma'y  Jane  was  alongside  Betty 
Ward,  and  her  rider  was  wringing  Fairfax's  un- 
wounded  arm,  pouring  out  a  torrent  of  welcome. 
"  I  am  glad  to  see  you— rejoiced  !  Your  poor 
father,  sir,  has  had  heavy  afflictions,  and  nothing 
has  comforted  him  like  the  news  you  were  to 
come— look  a  here,  boy,  what's  the  matter  with 
your  shoulder  ?  " 


62  EXPIA  TION, 

Parson  Collins  lifted  his  lantern. 

''  Well,  sir  !  You've  got  hurt  already.  Who 
did  it  ?     When  did  it  happen  ?  " 

Fairfax  rapidly  explained.  He  had  suddenly 
been  struck  by  a  new  idea.  Jim  Fowler's  sacrifices 
possessed  his  imagination.  Only  now  it  was  his 
turn  to  deceive  the  slayers.  How  badly  hurt  he 
might  be  he  could  not  tell ;  he  fancied  the  wound 
more  serious  than  it  actually  was,  feeling  so  faint 
and  giddy  and  knowing  nothing  about  gunshot 
wounds.  Should  he  go  on,  the  guerillas  might 
follow  and  capture  him,  or  he  might  roll  off  his 
horse  and  lie  there  in  the  wood,  a  prey  to  any 
comer ;  should  he  go  with  Collins,  the  same  peril 
menaced  them.  But  could  he  persuade  the  min- 
ister to  take  the  money  while  he  galloped  on, 
tracking  his  way  by  that  bleeding  shoulder,  it  was 
he  whom  they  would  follow,  and,  whatever  hap- 
pened to  him,  the  money  would  be  safe. 

Therefore,  on  the  heels  of  his  rapid  words  he 
pulled  out  the  money  and  asked  Parson  Collins  to 
receive  it :  protesting  that  he  had  enough  money 
of  his  own  to  satisfy  the  graybacks,  were  they  to 
catch  him. 

"  They  can't  know  anything  about  my  having 
the    money,"    said    he ;    ''I    daresay    they    only 


EXP  I  A  TION.  63 

shot  at  me  for  my  clothes  or  my  boots  or  my 
horse." 

**  They're  mean  enough,"  said  Parson  ColHns ; 
"  wonder  if  we  all  couldn't  fight  'em.  I've  got  a 
splendid  revolver,  and  the  Lord  is  on  our  side — 
if  there  ain't  too  many  of  'em,"  he  added,  practi- 
cally;  "'  do  you  reckon  there'll  be  more  than  four 
of  'em  ?  " 

*'  I  only  heard  the  shot.  It  smashed  the 
lantern." 

''  Lucky  for  you  it  did.  You'd  ought  to  have 
put  it  out — you  in  the  light  and  they  in  the  dark, 
making  the  best  kind  of  a  target  of  yourself." 

He  flung  his  own  coat-skirt,  a  rusty  black 
broadcloth  one,  over  his  own  lantern  ;  his  rugged, 
kindly  face,  framed  in  waving  white  hair,  smiled 
on  Fairfax,  and  went  out  in  the  darkness.  Only 
the  indistinct  silhouette  of  a  horseman  remained. 

"■  Might  as  well  not  stick  up  a  sign-post  for 
'em,"  said  Mr.  Collins.  ''  Now,  Mr.  Rutherford, 
with  the  Lord's  help,  we'll  fool  these  vilyuns. 
I  expect  you  have  been  bleeding  of  your  shoul- 
der making  a  trail.  You  ride  ahead  for  a  spell. 
Moon's  out,  and  it's  coming  on  light  enough  to 
see  a  mite.  You'll  come  to  a  slash  with  a  burned 
tupello-gum  standing    chalk    white    and    black  in 


64  EXPIA  TIOX. 

the  water.  You  cayn't  miss.  Stop  there  and  sHp 
off  into  the  water — good  bottom,  no  fear — and  get 
jes'  behind  that  tree  and  wait  on  me.  I  know  a 
short  cut  to  Montaigne;  and  I  can  find  the  way  on 
the  grass  even  without  a  lantern,  so  they  cayn't 
see  me.  If  they  are  behind  us  now,  they  have 
seen  my  lantern  go  out,  and  wall  'low  I  have 
turned  into  the  woods.  Now  farewell,  sir,  for  the 
present." 

"  But  take  the  money  !  "  urged  Fairfax. 

Parson  Collins  hesitated,  but  muttering,  '*  Who 
knows  ?  The  Colonel  cayn't  afford  to  lose  it,  for 
a  fact,"  held  out  his  hand  for  the  package. 

Having  received  it,  the  white  mule  bounded 
into  the  wood. 

They  were  as  utterly  gone,  that  dark  night,  as 
if  they  had  never  been  ;  and  the  only  sound  which 
came  to  Fairfax  was  the  swift  thud  of  Betty 
Ward's  hoof  on  the  sand.  It  is  a  feature  of  the 
Black  River  country  that  it  lies  in  ridges.  On  the 
ridges  the  roads  are  good,  between  them  they  are 
swamps ;  hence  a  road  which  threatens  to  mire  a 
horse  at  every  step  may  all  at  once  climb  into  a 
smooth,  dry  highway.  Sand,  drifted  into  the  soil 
in  some  of  the  very  richest  farming  lands,  helps 
the    geographical    peculiarities    of    the   country. 


o 


EXP  J  A  TION.  65 

Fairfax  seemed  to  be  galloping  on  a  floor.  By 
this  time  he  was  so  faint  with  his  wound  and  the 
motion,  which  felt  to  him  like  a  pump  drawing 
the  blood  out  of  his  body  through  his  shoulder, 
that  he  could  only  dimly  distinguish  objects  as  he 
was  whirled  along.  Wasn't  that  a  blasted  white 
trunk?  He  pulled  on  the  reins,  but  his  weak  fin- 
gers were  numb  ;  the  horse  did  not  recognize  his 
voice  ;  he  could  not  stop  her.  On  fire  with  fright, 
her  wide  nostrils  sniffing  the  home  air,  she  raced 
past  the  trysting-place  like  the  wind. 

Half  a  mile  farther,  so  near  that  Fairfax's  blur- 
ring eyes  could  see  the  early  morning  lights  of 
the  plantation,  Betty  Ward  flung  up  her  beautiful 
head  and  leaped  high  above  the  thorn-tree  felled 
across  the  road.  But  her  rider  lay  motionless  on 
the  other  side. 

"  Cotch  the  hoss,  Sam,   d you,"  bawled    a 

voice  out  of  the  trees,  ''  don't  hurt  'er,  you !  " 

''  Cayn't  cotch  'er,  'less  with  a  gun,''  Sam 
growled  back  ;  ''  will  I  shoot  ?  " 

*'  Naw,  d you,  she  done   throwed   him    all 

right,  an'  I  wunt  have  'er  hurted  !  Lige,  try  the 
rope  ! 

"  Lige   done  cotched    'er  !  "  Sam's  voice  called 
back,  amid  a   prodigious  scuffling  and  shouts  of 
5 


66  EXP  I  A  TION. 

"Whoa!"  and  ''Huh!"  Evidently  both  men 
were  struggling  with  the  horse. 

The  leader,  bidding  them  show  a  light,  crossed 
to  their  assistance.  Sure  that  the  horse  was  un- 
harmed, he  returned  to  Fairfax,  who  lay  like  a 
log  in  the  road. 

*'  Dead's*  a  hammer,  ain't  he,  Mack?  "  said  he, 
carelessly. 

""  Ya'as,  but  he's  'live  yet." 

*'  Are  it  young  Rutherford  ?  " 

"  Looks  like.  Got  the  funniest  cloze  on  I  ever 
did  see." 

"■  Hole  the  light.  We'll  see  if  we  ain't  got  the 
money  this  time." 

He  bent  over  the  insensible  man  and  nimbly 
stripped  him.  As  he  did  so  he  outlined,  against 
the  torch-flare,  a  sharp  profile  with  thin  lips, 
curved  nose,  hollow  cheeks,  a  sweeping  mustache, 
and  inky  locks  of  hair,  straight  and  coarse  enough 
to  warrant  the  common  taunt  that  ''  all  of  Dick 
Barnabas  wasn't  Jew  was  mean  Injun."  He  wore 
a  smart  military  hat  and  a  blue  Federal  blouse,  in 
very  good  order  ;  but  below  the  belt,  where  the 
United  States  eagle  shone,  were  two  veteran  pairs 


*  <' 


Dead  "   is  a  synonym  for  senseless,  in  Arkansas. 


■'Dead's  a  hammer,   aint  he,    Mack." 


o 


EXP  I  A  TIOh\  6y 

of  trousers  of  Confederate  gray,  one  above  the 
other,  and  the  nether  pair  almost  as  much  to  the 
fore  as  the  upper,  owing  to  tears  and  holes. 

Barnabas  needed  only  a  few  moments  to  dis- 
cover that  the  Rutherford  money  was  not  on 
Fairfax's  person. 

He  did  not  swear.  Swearing,  with  Dick  Bar- 
nabas, expressed  rather  a  jocose  frame  of  mind 
than  otherwise.  He  rose  silently,  and  stood 
stroking  his  eyebrows  down  on  to  the  bridge  of 
his  nose,  and  considered. 

**  Say,  Sam,"  Lige  whispered  to  his  comrade,  *'  I 
wudn't  be  in  that  ar  young  cuss's  shoes,  not  ef 
ye'd  give  me  the  money " 

"  What's  he  studyin',  do  ye  reckon  ?  " 

*'  Hell  /  "  was  Lige's  concise  but  ample  reply. 

"  Didn't  the  cunnel  done  'im  a  meanness  when 
they  ben  in  the  army,  hay?" 

''  He'd  of  shot  him,  if  he  hadn't  skedaddled. 
Had  ever'thing  ready  an'  him  under  gyuard." 

"  Well,  sir  I     What  fur  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  jest  jawhawkin'  a  Yank  and  burnin'  his 
heouse  down.  Thar  ben  a  young  un  in  the  heouse 
an'  the  old  man  ben  mad.  Say,  what's  Dick 
a-doin'  ?     Looks  interestin'." 

Barnabas  had  taken  the  gold  out  of  Fairfax's 


68  EXP  I  A  TION. 

money-belt  and  was  parcelling  it  out  with  the 
strict  fairness  which,  whether  out  of  shrewdness 
or  a  better  motive,  he  never  failed  to  use  with 
his  plundej;.  The  little  velvet  boxes  containing 
the  brooch  and  bracelet  brought  from  London 
to  Mrs.  Rutherford  and  Adele,  the  trinkets  for 
the  old  servants,  and  the  watch  for  the  Colonel 
were  set  aside  **  fur  the  pile"  (Dick's  word,  per- 
haps, for  a  common  stock),  to  be  divided  at  leis- 
ure. Fairfax's  English  revolvers  the  guerilla 
leader  stowed  in  his  own  belt  ;  the  money-belt  he 
flung  to  one  of  the  men.  "  Now  fur  the  cloze," 
said  he ;  "  them  pants  strikes  me  heavy.  Say, 
you  Mack,  pull  'em  off." 

Lige  was  tossed  Fairfax's  hat  ;  Sam  got  his 
coat  ;  his  flannel  shirt  went  to  Mack.  While  the 
other  men  were  trying  to  squeeze  their  feet  into 
his  boots,  and  laughing  and  disputing  over  the 
contents  of  his  portmanteau,  his  dressing-case, 
his  undergarments,  and  his  handkerchiefs,  the 
poor  lad  began  to  revive. 

To  awaken  from  a  swoon  is  always  a  painful 
sensation.  The  soul  returns  to  the  body  some- 
what as  separated  cars  are  coupled  to  a  locomotive 
— with  a  jar  that  shakes  both.  But  to  awaken, 
lying  wounded  and  shaken,    plucked  like  a  dead 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION.  69 

turkey,  and  to  stare  up  at  such  a  devilish  grin  of 
satisfied  malice  and  fury  as  that  which  contorted 
Dick's  lips — there  is  an  experience  to  wrench  the 
nerves. 

Fairfax  shut  his  eyes ;  he  forced  back  a  groan. 

"  Don't  like  my  looks,  hay?  "  said  the  guerilla; 
"  I'll  be  a  right  smart  prettier  when  I  get  them 
pants  er  yourn  onto  me.  Look  a  yere,  I  ain't  no 
time  fur  funnin'  ;  I  am  Dick  Barnabas.  Whar's 
that  ar  twenty  thousan'  dollars  ?  " 

*'  I — I  haven't  any  twenty  thousand  dollars," 
Fairfax  managed  to  gasp,  painfully. 

**  Ef  ye  have,  you  mus'  keep  it  unner  you'  skin, 
by ,"  was  the  grim  answer  ;  "  whar's  it  at  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Fairfax. 

'*  Look  a  yere,  boy,"  said  Dick,  dropping  his 
voice  to  a  lower  key  which  somehow  had  a  sinis- 
ter and  ominous  effect,  and  incessantly  stroking 
his  eyebrows,  ''you've  got  to  know.  It's  wuth 
you'  life,  that's  what  it's  wuth.  You  answer  my 
questions  true  and  straight,  an'  you'  paw'U  meet 
up  with  ye  t'night.  You  don't,  an'  I'll  kill  you  ! 
An   it  wiuit  be  nice — easy — killi?i ,  either ^ 

''  I  can't  tell  what   I   don't  know,"  said  Fairfax. 

*'  Looks  like  he  got  grit,  don't  it  ?  "  Lige  mut- 
tered. 


70  EXP  I  A  TION. 

Fairfax's  hearing,  which  was  in  the  abnormal 
state  of  keenness  accompanying  certain  conditions 
of  nervous  strain,  caught  the  words. 

His  sensitive  mouth  quivered  a  Httle.  Too 
vague  for  shaping  in  words,  a  sensation  rather 
than  a  feehng,  something  hke  this  was  in  his  diz- 
zied brain  : 

"■  All  my  boyhood  I  feared  that  I  was  a  coward  ; 
I  forgot  it  when  I  had  nothing  to  make  me  afraid, 
but  the  old  dread  met  me  as  soon  as  I  touched 
the  old  swamp  ;  now,  now  I  am  in  mortal  peril — 
oh,  thank  God,  thank  God,  I  am  not  afraid  !  " 

Was  he  not  afraid  ?  He  was  trembling,  and 
the  cold  drops  in  the  roots  of  his  hair  ran  down 
his  forehead.  No,  he  was  not  afraid,  not  as  he 
had  been  afraid  in  his  childhood  ;  that  hideous 
paralysis  of  will  and  muscle,  that  ecstasy  of  utterly 
unreasonable,  unreachable  terror — he  did  not  feel 
that. 

"Wa'al,"  said  Barnabas,  ''  made  up  you'  mind? 
Spit  it  out  !  " 

Fairfax  looked  him  in  the  eye  without  flinch- 
ing ;  he  said  not  a  word. 

Dick  Barnabas  never  would  have  won  his  evil 
fame  had  he  simply  had  wickedness  and  courage  ; 
there   was  a   vein  of   acuteness  in  his  mind,  and 


EXPIATlOiW  71 

such  sagacity  as  makes  a  good  off-hand,  rough 
guess  at  character.  Besides,  he  had  known  the 
Rutherfords  for  years. 

*'  Look  a  yere,"  he  continued,  in  quite  another 
tone,  "•  I  ain't  no  friend  to  Rutherfords,  but  they 
all  are  high-toned  gentlemen ;  I  never  knowed 
nare  Rutherford  wud  tell  a  lie.  Ef  you'll  say,  on 
your  honor's  a  gentleman,  that  ye  doan'  know 
nuthin'  beout  that  money,  I  give  ye  my  word,  on 
inine,ye^  kin  lope  Mack's  hoss  and  light  out.  Kin 
ye  : 

Their  eyes  met  ;  the  cruel  old-race  black  ones, 
the  frank  brown  eyes  of  the  Anglo-American  ;  the 
glitter  in  each  crossed  under  the  torch-rays  like 
sword-blades,  but  it  was  the  brown  flash  that 
wavered.     Fairfax  compressed  his  lips. 

"  You  cayyit  ! "  shouted  the  guerilla.  He 
wheeled  round  on  the  listening  men.  "  Say, 
Mack,  how's  that  fire  you  all  putt  out  "^  in  the 
woods  for  a  warm.^  " 

Mack,  a  thoroughly  brutal-looking  fellow,  jerked 
a  snort  of  laughter  out  of  his  short  throat. 

"  T>om  fine,''  said  he,  "  right  smart  er  coalses." 

*  They    always    "putt    out"    a    fire    when    they    make    it,    in 
Arkansas. 


IV. 

DEEP  in  the  dense  forests  surrounding  the 
farms  and  cotton-fields  of  Montaigne  there 
still  may  be  seen  a  ragged  clearing.  The  gum- 
trees  and  white-oaks,  the  cypress  and  tupello-gums 
and  hackberry-trees,  are  like  a  wall  growing  out  of 
the  wet  land  about  it,  for  the  clearing  itself  rises 
high  and  dry. 

Grotesque  cypress  knees  grin  out  of  the  water 
like  a  jagged  saw.  In  autumn,  gorgeous  red  and 
gold  stars  from  the  gum-trees,  duller  red  leaves 
from  the  long,  hanging  hackberry  branches,  rusty 
needles  of  foliage  from  the  cypress,  and  vivid 
green  arrow-heads  from  the  water-oaks,  fleck  that 
black  and  gleaming  mirror  with  its  ghosts  of  trees. 

Often  one  will  see  a  white  crane  standing  on 
one  leg  at  the  edge  of  the  brake,  espying  its  food. 

The  clearing  may  hold  a  couple  of  acres.  It  is 
covered,  now,  by  a  wild  growth  of  elbow-brush, 
pawpaw  saplings,  muscadine  vines,  and  swamp 
hackberries.  "  Tar  blankets "  flap  their  great 
leaves    above    their    prickly  sides.     When   spring 


EXP  J  A  TION.  73 

comes,  the  "  buckeye  "  bells  swing  like  tongues  of 
flame  among  the  greenery.  Yet,  strange  to  see  in 
such  a  wilderness,  here  and  again  a  cotton-plant 
penetrates  the  tangle,  and,  during  the  first  Octo- 
ber days,  flings  out  its  ragged  flag  of  truce  to  win- 
ter. Once,  only  the  cotton-plants  were  to  be 
seen.  Then,  on  the  mound  to  the  right,  which 
was  a  forgotten  chief's  last  show  of  pride,  an  old 
Frenchman  had  built  him  a  log  cabin,  where  he 
lived  alone. 

He  cam.e  up  the  river  in  his  own  clumsy  boat, 
leased  land  from  Colonel  Rutherford,  cleared  it, 
in  the  wasteful  fashion  of  the  country,  by  gir- 
dling and  burning  the  trees  ;  and  had  a  house  to 
take  the  place  of  his  tent  of  boughs  and  blankets 
within  a  month  of  his  first  axe-stroke. 

His  lease  of  the  place  was  short.  For  some 
reason  Dick  Barnabas  became  persuaded  that  the 
lonely  tenant  had  money — gold  and  greenbacks. 
He  cam'e  in  the  spring  and  "  made  a  crop  " — and, 
the  following  summer,  when  all  his  field  was  blos- 
soming in  pink  and  white,  a  chance  messenger 
from  Montaigne  found  the  cabin  a  heap  of  smok- 
ing embers,  and  the  Frenchman's  body  in  the 
swamp.  How  he  died  no  one  rightly  knew,  but 
there  were  tales  of  torture  as  well  as  murder  ;  and 


74  EXP  I  A  TIOA\ 

certain  it  is  that  the  man  who  found  the  mangled 
body  told  his  tale  with  sobs  and  oaths  ;  nor  could 
he  ev^er  be  persuaded  to  set  foot  on  the  place 
again.  The  cotton-field  had  holes  all  over  it, 
where  the  guerillas  must  have  digged  for  hidden 
treasures.  In  one  of  these  holes,  widened  and 
lengthened  by  his  own  spade,  Barnabas's  victim 
lies  to  this  day. 

Why  Dick  should  choose  the  spot  for  his  ren- 
dezvous his  men  could  not  understand.  They 
were  merely  ordinary  desperadoes — the  scum  of 
warfare  and  a  wild  country,  some  of  them  hardly 
as  bad  as  that,  being  disbanded  soldiers  or  desert- 
ers who  had  joined  the  "  graybacks,"  intending 
to  plunder  in  patriotic  fashion,  and  harass  only 
the  Federals  and  Federal  sympathizers — but  had 
drifted  into  an  ever-widening  whirlpool  of  crime. 
They  had  no  stomach  for  torture  and  murder  in 
themselves,  however  necessary  to  wring  money 
from  their  victims  ;  and  they  would  willingly  have 
thrust  certain  black  passages  out  of  memory.  La 
Rouge's  cries  stuck  in  their  ears. 

Dick  told  them  that  he  chose  the  place  because 
it  was  a  spot  held  accursed  and  haunted. 

'^  Ef  they  all  see  the  smoke,  so  much  the  bet- 
ter," he  jeered. 


EXP  I  A  TION.  75 

But  the  men  exchanged  furtive  glances. 

'^  'Tain't  nuthin'  for  laffin'  baout  " — Lige's  opin- 
ion, as  usual,  was  confided  to  his  crony  Sam — 
"  they  does  see  smoke  a-risin'  an'  hear  screechin' 
an'  nare  mortial  critter  nigh.     Ya'as,  sir." 

*'  Mout  of  ben  aowls,"  suggested  Sam,  who  was 
hard-headed  and  not  superstitious. 

**  Does  aowls  holler  French  lingo  ? "  Lige  re- 
torted. ''  An'  how  come  them  buzzards  will  sail 
an'  sail  overhaid  ?  They  didn't  useter  !  Sam,  I 
are  sick  er  this  yere." 

'*  Look  a'  him,''  said  Sam  ;  "  he  ain't  consarnin' 
hisself  much,  be  he  ?  " 

"  He  is  the  devil''  said  Lige. 

Perhaps  to  win  from  his  rufifians  just  this  very 
mixture  of  fear  and  admiration  and  wonder  may 
have  belonged  to  Barnabas's  motives. 

At  any  rate,  it  is  a  question  if  he  were  not  cun- 
ning in  bringing  Fairfax  here.  Had  he  proceeded 
to  extremities  while  the  young  man's  will  was 
strung  to  its  highest  tension  to  resist,  he  might 
have  been  balked.  Fairfax  always  believed  that 
he  could  have  held  out  then. 

But  the  long  ride  through  the  brake  in  darkness 
and  silence,  bound,  helpless,  stabbed  by  every 
stumble,  was  too  much  for  the  poor  boy's  nerve. 


7^  EXPIA  TION. 

Barnabas  led  the  way.  Not  a  word  was  spoken. 
Fairfax  could  think,  could  realize  the  full  horror 
of  his  position. 

Creeping — creeping — the  old  numbness  of  ter- 
ror, the  hand  on  his  throat,  the  chill  in  his  veins 
— oh,  if  he  could  only  die,  he  thought,  before 
those  beasts  began  on  him  ! 

They  were  half  an  hour  going  from  the  road  to 
La  Rouge's  cabin,  riding  straight  as  the  crow  flies. 
Sometimes  they  trotted  on  high  ground  covered 
with  cotton-stalks,  sometimes  the  horses  were  up 
to  their  knees  in  the  bog ;  and  once  Fairfax  felt  a 
heave  of  his  mule's  flanks  and  heard  the  swash  of 
waters  as  if  the  animal  were  swimming.  He  tried 
to  collect  his  thoughts,  he  tried  to  pray,  but  his 
mind  would  wander.  It  is  likely  that  he  was 
taken  with  a  chill,  having  travelled  for  days 
through  an  air  laden  with  miasma;  and  with  the 
pain  from  his  wound  and  the  loss  of  blood  he  was 
half-delirious. 

His  thoughts  were  only  a  jumble  of  hideous 
pictures.  What  was  the  story  that  he  had  been 
told  about  Barnabas  at  Jacksonport  ?  Pulling  out 
a  man's  nails  was  too  mediaeval !  And  the  other 
■ — ugh,  that  was  worse  !  When  he  was  a  little, 
little  child.  Mammy  used  to  tell  horrible  stories. 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION.  yy 

How  they  terrified  him  !  That  one,  of  the  big 
conjure-men  who  threw  lizards  into  Mammy's 
mother  so  that  she  died— but  that  was  not  so 
frightful  as  the  one  about  the  little  black  cat 
without  a  head  that  would  come  and  sit  by  a 
"  mean  "  boy's  bed  and  purr  and  purr;  and,  if  the 
boy  should  make  the  least  bit  of  noise,  would 
leap  on  the  bed  and  rub  its  dreadful  neck  against 
him.  What  a  ghastly  fancy  !  Why  must  he  re- 
member it  now? 

Adele  didn't  believe  in  the  cat.  She  jumped 
out  of  the  bed  and  lit  a  light  and  ran  into  Fair's 
room  to  look  under  the  bed.  She  called  '^  Pussy  ! 
pussy  !  "  very  loud  ;  and  there  wasn't  anything 
under  the  bed,  and  she  sat  down  beside  Fair  and 
held  the  trembling  little  creature  in  her  strong, 
warm  arms  until  he  fell  asleep.  Was  he  a  coward 
yet  ? 

"  Halt !  "  rang  out  Barnabas's  thin,  high  voice. 
They  had  arrived  at  the  camp.  The  camp-fire 
was  blazing  against  a  log. 

''  Rake  out  them  coalses  ! '"  commanded  Bar- 
nabas. 

Mack  and  a  small  dark  man,  said  to  be  Barna- 
bas's cousin,  were  the  only  men  that  bestirred 
themselves.     Four  or  five  other  men   stood  sul- 


78  EXP  I  A  TION. 

lenly,  agreeing  to  any  wickedness  of   their  leader 
but  not  anxious  to  help. 

Lige  scowled  and  whispered  to  Sam  that  he 
had  a  mind  to  kick,  he  warn't  no  Injun,  by . 

'*  Twenty  thousan'  dollars  are  a  right  smart  er 
money,"  said  Sam,  "  an'  only  ten  of  us  to  git  it." 
And  Lige  sank  into  moody  silence. 

When  Fairfax  was  lifted  from  his  horse,  his 
cramped  limbs  refused  to  support  him  ;  he  fell  in 
a  heap  on  the  ground. 

''  Feller's  chillin',  shore,"  the  small  dark  man 
observed  to  Barnabas. 

*'  Nev'  mind,  Ziah,  he'll  be  warm  enough  right 
soon,"  answered  Barnabas,  with  a  leer ;  *'  FU 
scorch  him  for  five  hundred  !  "  which  saying  has 
passed  into  a  common  word  in  that  country. 

Then  he  addressed  himself  to  Fairfax  :  "  D'ye 
see  them  coalses.  Bud  ?  They're  all  fer  you,  ever' 
last  one,  twell  ye  tell  whar  that  money's  at  or 
you're  daid — one  !  " 

The  skies  had  cleared  and  the  moon  was  rolling 
high  in  the  heavens,  while  far  toward  the  east  was 
a  faint  lightening,  the  promise  of  the  dawn. 

Fairfax  cast  his  frenzied  eyes  round  the  dark 
circle  of  figures.     *'  Are  you  all  fiends  ?  "  he  cried. 

Sam   gripped   Lige's    arm,  whispering :    "  Shut 


EXP  I  A  TION.  79 

Up  !   he's   fixin'  tuh  give   in.     Don't  you    make  a 
fool  of  you'seff !  " 

'^  I  reckon,"  said  Barnabas,  coolly.  "  Now, 
Bud,  this  yere's  the  last  time  er  axin'.  W/iar's 
hit  at  f 

Five  minutes  later,  the  moon  at  this  time  shin- 
ing brightly,  an  eye-witness  would  have  noticed 
that  Barnabas's  men,  not  clean  enough  to  grow 
pale,  were  drawing  their  breath  quickly  and  hard 
Lige  held  his  hand  before  his  nostrils.  Sam,  in 
spite  of  the  twenty  thousand  dollars,  could  not 
keep  his  eyes  on  one  hissing  and  glowing  spot 
of  light,  over  which  Mack's  coarse  face  and  great 
shoulders  kept  stooping.  Far  less  could  he  bear 
to  look  at  a  distorted,  white  young  face  and 
writhing  chest. 

But  a  horrible  and  engrossing  interest  kept 
every  other  eye  on  that  awful  wrestle  between 
physical  torment  and  a  man's  will. 

Barnabas  lifted  his  finger.  Mack's  pan  of  coals 
was  stopped  midway. 

"  Now,  look  a  yere.  Mister  Rutherford,"  said 
Dick,  in  a  quiet,  conversational  tone,  ''you'  doin' 
a  mighty  fool  thing  gittin'  you'seff  all  burned 
up   this  a  way.     Wich  do  you  reckon  you'  paw 


8o  EXPIA  TION. 


is  a   wantin'  most,  that   ar  money  or  his  onlies* 
son  ?  " 

It  is  the  chief  and  besetting  temptation  of  a 
many-sided,  tolerant  nature  that,  however  much 
it  has  risked  on  any  course  of  action,  such  action 
may  all  at  once  present  itself  under  an  entirely 
different  aspect.  Suddenly  his  own  conduct  ap- 
peared to  Fairfax  strained  and  ridiculous.  Why 
throw  away  his  life?  His  uncle  would  pay  his 
father  back  that  money.  Only  let  him  buy  his 
way  out  of  this  agony. 

He  tried  to  catch  at  some  semblance  of  spirit 
in  his  defeat.  ''  I  daresay  you're  right,"  he  said, 
holding  his  words  steady  by  a  tremendous  effort. 

"  In  co'se  I'm  right,  Mr.  Rutherford,"  said  Dick. 
"  Say,  I'll  make  you  a  fa'r  offer.  You  tell  me  all 
ye  know,  an'  the  minnit  we  git  the  money  you  kin 
light  out." 

'*  I  gave  it  to  some  one  else." 

*'  Who  ?  Aw  speak  out,  we  wunt  hurt  him  if  he 
gives  up  the  money." 

Then  Fairfax  told.  He  had  given  the  money 
to  Mr.  Collins.  He  did  not  know  where  Mr. 
Collins  had  gone. 

Dick  Barnabas's  eyes  glittered.  "  Parson  Col- 
lins,  hay?     We'll    find   him    quick   nuff.     Gether 


EXP  I  A  TION.  8 1 

some  pawpaw  strips,  will  ye,  Race?  H'ist  'em  on 
his  mewl,  an'  tie  the  young  gen'lman  up,  com- 
f'table.  Fling  some  trash  on  that  fire,  Mack. 
Now,  boys !  " 

The  loose  branches  and  cotton-stalks,  "  trash  " 
in  the  vernacular,  shot  up  a  ruddy  column,  by  the 
light  of  which  the  brilliant  masses  of  gum-tree 
foliage  and  the  tall  cypress  trunks  started  out  of 
the  night  ;  and  the  waters  gleamed  like  molten 
steel  beneath  the  trees,  or  splashed  into  white 
spherules  under  the  horses'  feet.  One  by  one 
each  horse  or  mule  plunged  into  the  brake,  and 
the  muffled  noise  of  wading  would  come  back. 

"  I  are  cl'ar  on  one  p'int,"  said  Lige  to  Sam, 
taking  advantage  of  their  position  in  the  rear,  *'  I 
ain't  gwine  roast  er  stick  Ole  Man  Collins  that 
guv  me  a  boss  in  the  war  and  nussed  we  uns  in 
the  hospital.  Naw,  sir — not  fur  forty  thousan' 
dollars.  An'  Mis'  Collins,  when  she  was  'live  an' 
I  ben  a  little  trick,  she  guv  me  a  ginger  pone, 
onct.  An'  don'  ye  'member  how,  when  he  ben 
chaplin  in  the  ole  man's  rigimint,  how  he  wud  be 
a-holpin'  the  doctors  with  the  wyoundid,  a  trottin' 
raoun'  not  heedin'  the  bullets  nare  more'n  gum- 
balls  ?  " 

'*  Ya'as,  that's  so,  fur  a  fact,"  acquiesced  Sam. 
6 


82  EXP  I  A  TION. 

Lige  warmed  in  praise  of  a  hero  of  his  child- 
hood. ''  An'  what  a  hunter  he  is — shoot  the  wink 
offen  you'  eye  !  An'  he  knows  more  'baout 
beasts  than  are  man  on  earth  ;  he  does  so.  Look 
a'  Dick  Barnabas  a-ridin'  Betty  Ward  this  way 
kase  Bailey  got  the  big  shoulder;  Bailey  wudn't 
'a'  had  the  big  shoulder  ef  he'd  of  fotched  him 
right  straight  t'  the  Parson.  Naw,  he  cud  cure 
him  hisseff,  he  cud  ;  now,  look  a'  the  hoss  !  You 
better  believe  Parson  knows  more'n  a  day'n 
Dick  done  all  his  life.  Say,  ain't  ye  never  heerd 
how  he  set  the  hide  on  Dick  with  that  mewl 
trade  ?  " 

"  Ya'as,  sir,"  said  Sam,  shaking  his  head,  ''  he  is 
slick  at  a  trade.  Dear,  dear,  dear,  ain't  it  turrible 
fur  t'  hev  t'  do  a  man  like  that  mean  !  But  twud 
be  turrible  t'  lose  all  that  money  tew.  'Clare  I 
cayn't  tell  wich  'ud  be  the  most  turribler !  " 

''Who's  that  fool  gabbin' ? "  a  fierce  whisper 
demanded.  Thereupon  both  men  were  silent. 
They  had  emerged  from  the  swamp  and  were 
riding  through  a  high,  fertile  region  of  farming 
lands.  Just  in  front  of  them  was  a  whitewashed 
wooden  house,  with  a  gambrel  roof,  like  most 
Arkansas  houses  in  the  country  at  that  date. 

It    was    not    a   large    house  ;    but   there   was  a 


EXPIA  TION.  83 

certain  air  of  prosperity  in  the  neatness  and  repair 
of  all  its  belongings,  and  the  presence  about  the 
yard  or  ""  gallery  "  of  various  primitive  conven- 
iences, such  as  sections  of  cypress  logs  sawed  level 
for  horse-blocks,  a  trough  hollowed  out  of  a  log 
by  the  pump  to  keep  the  milk  cool,  a  "  hitchin'- 
bar  "  made  of  a  young  iron-tree  and  slung  across 
two  posts  of  the  same  wood,  a  '^  dish-rag  "  vine 
climbing  up  the  porch-lattice,  some  gourds  swing- 
ing from  nails  in  the  house-wall,  and  a  churn  back 
in  the  gallery,  where  hung  a  very  good  saddle  and 
a  powder-flask. 

The  light  of  the  fire  and  a  flicker  from  a  single 
"grease  lamp"  seemed  to  indicate  that  some  one 
was  at  home. 

The  band  silently  surrounded  the  house. 
"  He'll  shore  git  off  ef  he  makes  a  break,  my 
way,''  Lige  found  time  to  remark  to  Sam. 

*'  Me  too,"  said  Sam. 

But,  apparently,  the  minister  had  no  intention 
of  flight.  He  opened  the  door  to  their  first 
summons. 

Many  a  man  in  that  wicked  company  remem- 
bered afterward  how  he  looked  ;  an  old  man,  but 
hale  and  vigorous,  and  greeting  them  with  his 
every-day  shrewd  smile. 


84  EXPiA  TION. 

"Walk  in,  gentlemen,"  said  he;  "what  can  I 
do  for  you  all  ?  " 

The  men  swaggered  in  with  vast  bluster  and 
curses,  howling  for  the  money. 

As  soon  as  the  uproar  had  abated  a  little : 
"  Now,  gentlemen,"  said  Parson  Collins,  "  there 
ain't  no  need  of  you  all  rarin'  and  chargin'  and 
taking  the  name  of  the  Lord  in  vain;  /  ain't  an 
army." 

"  Noner  you'  monkeyin',"  snarled  Dick  ;  "you' 
pardner  done  guv  ye  'way.  You  got  the  money. 
Whar's  it  at  ?  " 

"  I  am  right  grieved  to  see  you  in  this  condi- 
tion, Mr.  Rutherford,"  said  Parson  Collins,  "  I  am 
so 

So  weak  was  Fairfax  that  the  tears  rose  to  his 
eyes  at  the  words  ;  he  spoke  bitterly:  "  If  I  have 
gotten  you  into  any  trouble,  Mr.  Collins,  I  shall 
wish  I  had  let  them  kill  me.  But  they  promised 
to  let  you  go  free  if  you  will  give  up  the  money. 
I  release  you.      I    beg   you    tell    them   where    it 

IS 

"  Now  you'r  talkin',  Bud,"  bawled  Mack,  slap- 
ping Fairfax  on  his  wounded  shoulder.  Barnabas 
savagely  told  Collins  to  make  haste  and  show  them 
where  the  money  was  hidden.     "If  you  will  do 


EXP  I  A  TION.  85 

that,  Mist'  Collins,''  he  added,  with  a  swift  change 
from  his  frantic  vaporings  to  his  suavest  manner,  a 
shadow  of  that  wheedling  obsequiousness  which 
is  the  trade-mark  of  the  worst  of  his  father's  race, 
*'ef  you  will,  1  will  be  happy  ter  'low  a  gentleman 
I  respect  so  much  t'  git  off  all  right.  You'll  fin' 
me  squar'  ef  you'll  act  squar\" 

Brother  Collins  appeared  to  consider.  He 
rubbed  the  palms  of  his  hands  together  and 
wrinkled  his  eyelids,  half  shutting  his  eyes,  just  as 
his  manner  was  when  revolving  a  horse-trade. 

*'  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  mind  admitting  that 
I  did  have  the  money." 

''  An'  ye  got  it  now,"  said  Dick. 

'*  No,  sir,  not  one  cent." 

A  vile  oath  burst  from  Mack,  and  two  or  three 
of  the  guerillas  were  for  roughly  handling  the 
minister  ;  but  Dick  restrained  them.  His  swarthy 
skin  had  turned  a  dull  red ;  and  his  fingers  crept 
up  to  his  eyebrows.  He  asked  Parson  Collins  to 
whom  he  gave  the  money. 

"  And  if  I  don't  tell  you,  you  all  will  torture 
and  kill  me,  I  expect,"  replied  the  Parson,  no  whit 
disturbed. 

"  I  reckon,"  said  Dick. 

They  looked  at  each  other. 


86  EXP  I  A  TION, 

"■  Oh,  d it    all,   ain't    he    got    grit  ?  "    Lige 

gasped. 

''  But— if  I  do  tell  you  ?  " 

^'  Ef  ye  tell  me  all  ye  know  'baout  it,  who  ye 
guv  it  ter,  an'  when,  an'  how,  I  swar  I  wunt  hurt 
a  hair  er  you'  haid  nur  let  nare  one  er  my  men 
hurt  ye,  neether." 

"  For  God's  sake,  tell  him,  Mr.  Collins,"  cried 
Fairfax. 

"  And — you  won't  rue  back  ?  " 

'*  Ye  know  I  never  did  rue  back,  an*  I  never 
will." 

Was  it  possible  that  a  grim  smile  was  curling 
the  Parson's  lips?  His  big  fingers  slipped  down 
under  the  bony  knuckles  and  interlaced. 

''  It's  a  trade?  "  said  he. 

"  It's  a  trade,"  said  Dick. 

''  Well,  to  tell  you  all  the  plain  truth,  then  " — 
Parson  Collins  wore  his  pulpit  expression  prefa- 
tory of  a  good  story — "  when  I  heard  you  coming 
I  became  alarmed,  and — I  gave  the  money  to  Slick 
Mose!" 

Disappointed  as  they  were,  half  the  men  grinned ; 
every  man  of  them  knew  that  they  couldn't  fol- 
low Mose  into  the  swamps  ;  even  if  they  did,  the 
chances  were  that  they  would   stop   at   a  rattle- 


EXP  J  A  TION.  ^y 

snake's  den,  where  Mose's  playfellows  were  'I'rawl- 
ing  over  the  bank-notes.  Parson  Collins  might  as 
well  have  flung  them  into  Running  Water  for  any 
hope  the  guerillas  could  see  of  getting  them.  Yet 
the  humor  which  redeems  the  most  degraded 
Westerners  helped  these  ruffians  to  a  sardonic 
relish  of  their  own  discomfiture. 

**  Got  the  dead  wood  on  ye  agin,  Dick,"  said 
one  of  the  men.  ''  That  ar's  the  best  aout  at 
tradin'  you  ever  did  make.  Parson,"  shouted 
Horace,  while  Fairfax,  half  dead  though  he  was 
with  exhaustion  and  agony,  could  not  restrain  a 
hysterical  laugh. 

'*  Slick  Mose — that's  Who,"  continued  Parson 
Collins,  running  his  shrewd  eye  down  the  line  of 
murderous  faces  with  that  same  air  of  addressing 
an  audience  and  speaking  in  his  distinct,  rapid, 
pulpit  tone.  "  When  I  perceived  your  approach, 
or,  rather,  when  Mose,  who  was  providentially  pres- 
ent— come  for  persimmons — did,  I  said  to  myself 
— in  the  words  of  the  hymn — '  a  charge  to  keep  I 
have,'  and  it  ain't  safe  to  keep  it  ;  so  I  committed 
the  package  to  Mose,  and  he  jumped  out  of  that 
window  to  the  right.  That,  gentlemen,  is  the 
How.  I  did  not  look,  and  I  do  not  know  in 
which  direction  he  went." 


88  EXP  I  A  TION. 

'■'  Doan'  see's  thar's  anythin'  ieff  fur  we  uns  but 
'cept  t'  light  out,"  said  Lige.  **  Parson  done 
skinned  us  fine  /  " 

Dick  gave  him  an  evil  glance.  Yet  his  words 
were  not  vindictive. 

"  I  sayd  nare  un  er  we  all  would  hurt  a  h'ar  er 
you'  haid,  Parson.  An'  I  ain't  gwane  tuh  rue 
back.  Reckon  ye  wunt  refuse  tuh  look  a'  Bailey's 
big  shoulder  a  minnit  now.  You  Lige,  an'  Race 
an'  Brad,  go  back  fas'  ye  kin  tuh  the  boys  on  the 
road  an'  bid  'em  wait  on  me  than  Tell  'em  how 
we  was  done.  Mack,  you  an'  Sam  an'  Lum  Case 
stay  yere — you  in  co'se,  tew  " — nodding  to  his 
cousin.  ''  Burn  the  wind,  now  !  I'll  be  raoun' 
mighty  briefly." 

The  men  obeyed,  with  one  exception  ;  Lige 
answered,  sulkily  : 

"  I'd  ruther  stay  yere." 

In  spite  of  his  seeming  apathy,  Dick's  Indian 
blood  was  at  boiling-point.  Lige  stood  in  front 
of  the  open  window  ;  before  he  had  time  to 
realize  the  situation  he  found  himself  sprawling 
on  the  ground  outside. 

"  When  I  tell  my  men  ter  go,  I  'low  fur  ter 
have  'em,"  said  Dick,  coolly. 

"You'll  pay  for  this,"  Lige  growled. 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION.  89 

Without  another  word  he  gathered  himself  un, 
mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  away — not  with  the 
troop.  He  only  rode  to  the  belt  of  sycamores 
beyond  the  fence  before  he  deliberately  turned  his 
horse. 

Out  to  the  right,  in  front  of  the  house,  a 
flame  had  leaped  up,  illumining  a  little  patch  of 
ground — and  figures  of  men  moved  across  the 
light ;  they  seemed  to  be  occupied  with  the  black 
horse. 

Lige  cautiously  skirted  his  way  through  the 
woods  into  a  clump  of  pecan-trees.  He  had  left 
his  horse,  half  way,  tied  to  a  tree.  In  the  dark 
himself,  he  could  see  every  movement  of  the 
group  by  the  fire. 

A  peaceful  enough  group  it  was,  to  all  appear- 
ances. Brother  Collins  was  fomenting  the  black's 
"big  shoulder;"  the  others  watched  him  ;  Mack 
still  guarded  Fairfax. 

Dick  called  to  one  of  the  men  to  lead  the  horse 
away  ;  simultaneously  some  quick  signal  of  his  was 
obeyed  by  three  men  falling  on  Brother  Collins 
and  skilfully  binding  him.  The  old  man,  sur- 
prised though  he  was,  made  a  stout  fight,  deliver- 
ing such  a  whole-souled  buffet  to  one  assailant 
that    it    bowled    him    over    into    the    fire.      But 


go  EXP  I  A  TION. 

presently  he  was  overcome,  and  tied  to  a  tree 
by  pawpaw  strips  like  those  that  held  Fairfax. 
During  the  tussle  Dick  was  shouting  continually 
that  they  should  not  hurt  him.  "  Nev'  mind  how 
he  does  ye,"  was  his  cry,  "  doan'  hurt  a  ha'r  er  his 
haid  ! " 

"Now  then,"  he  continued,  *'you  Mack,  hole  up 
that  feller's  arm.  Holp  'im,  Ziah.  Put  the  gun 
in  'is  hand  an'  hold  'is  arm  studdy  a-p'intin'  at 
Brother  Collins'  heart.  Cay  n't  ye  sight  no  better? 
Thar  ye  be,  slick's  a  scalded  hoeg !  Parson,  I 
never  rue  back.  We  ain't  hurted  a  h'ar  er  you' 
haid,  nur  we  don't  aim  tew.  But  thar  ain't  nare 
man  livin'  shall  make  their  brags  that  they  skinned 
Dick  Barnabas  twicet  in  a  trade.  Mr.  Fairfax 
Rutherford,  if  ye  pull  that  trigger,  an  hit  the 
my  ark,  ye  kin  ride  off  free.  If  ye  don't,  killin's 
ain't  tuh  be  compared  with  how  FU  do  ye.  Thar's 
plenty  more  coalses." 

'*And  killing  ain't  to  be  compared  with  the 
punishment  that's  waiting  on  you  all  in  the  world 
to  come,"  shouted  the  undaunted  preacher,  ''  pore 
misguided,  bloody  sinners  that  you  are  !  You 
ride  fast,  but  Death  will  catch  you,  and  ayfter 
death — the  judgment  !  " 

*'  Oh,  Lord,  ain't  he  chuckful  er  grit  !  "  moaned 


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EXPIATION.  91 

the    unseen    listener,    in    an    anguish    of    admira- 
tion. 

Dick  Barnabas  knew  too  much  of  the  Parson's 
rough  eloquence  to  let  the  fiery  words  flow  on. 

"Shet  up!"  he  yelled,  "or  I'll  roll  that  feller 
thar  in  the  fire." 

The  Parson  looked  at  Fairfax  compassionately. 

''  Dick,"  said  he,  very  gently,  "  I'll  give  ye  back 
the  right  to  shoot  me,  if  you'll  let  the  pore  boy 
off.     You  got  the  best  of  the  trade,  then." 

"  Naw,  sir,"  said  Dick,  *'  I  don't,  nur  you  don't 
neether." 

''  Don't  worry  about  me,  Mr.  Collins,"  Fairfax 
spoke  up  feebly,  but  with  a  show  of  spirit — only 
the  show,  poor  fellow — '*  I'm  about  finished,  now; 
these  devils  can't  make  me  suffer  long.  Forgive 
me  for  bringing  this  on  you,  and  tell  my  father  to 
forgive  me  too.     Give  him  my  love " 

"  That'll  do.  Bud,"  interrupted  Dick,  in  his 
softest  tones,  which  had  a  squeak  reminding  one 
of  the  noise  made  by  a  rusty  saw  toiling  through 
a  log;  ''you  spoke  you'  speech  fine.  Ziah,  pull  a 
thorn  off  that  ar  tree  an'  stick  that  piece  er  white 
paper  over  Parson's  heart.     Mack " 

He  only  made  a  gesture  with  his  finger  at  the 
coals,  looking  Fairfax  coldly  and  cruelly  in  the  eye. 


92  EXP  I  A  TION. 

There  was  that  in  his  look  paralyzing  the  will 
like  a  snake's  bite.  Desperately  Fairfax  rallied 
his  sinking  courage ;  all  his  being  concentrated 
into  one  throb  of  defiance:  ''I  will  not,  I  will 
not,  I  will  not." 

So,  shutting  his  eyes,  he  heard  the  words  say 
themselves  over  in  his  brain.  He  thought  nothing 
else,  not  of  his  father,  not  of  the  brave  old  man 
so  basely  done  to  death,  not  of  the  mortal  igno- 
miny to  be  his  if  he  failed  ;  only  tight-clinching 
his  free  hand,  blind,  deaf,  his  soul  clung  to  those 
words  : 

"  I  will  not,  I  will  not,  I  will  not." 

"Now,  Mack,  ready!''  called  the  cruel,  thin 
voice.     ''  Last  show.  Bud  !  " 

A  pain  that  goaded  every  tortured  nerve  into 
revolt ;  worse,  worse  than  the  pain,  the  sickening, 
familiar  terror — he  tried  to  cry,  "  I  will  not,  I  will 
not  ;  "  he  was  crying  it  in  his  soul. 

Dick,  who  stood  obliquely  at  a  little  distance  in 
front  of  the  fire,  bent  for  another  shovel  of  coals. 

At  the  same  instant  came  a  man's  scream,  and 
the  crack  of  a  pistol. 

Parson  Collins's  head  fell  forward  on  his  chest ; 
only  a  stained  and  blackened  shred  remained  of 
the  white  spot  over  his  heart.     Behind  the   trees 


o 


EXPIA  TFON.  93 

a  man  groaned  and  shut  the  sight  away  with  a 
ragged  arm. 

"Good  shot  !  "  yelled  Dick,  "  plum  through  his 

heart  by !     H !  take  away  his  gun,  you 

fools  !     What's  got  ye  ?  " 

The  two  men  holding  Fairfax,  the  devil's  read- 
iest tools  in  the  gang,  had  nearly  released  Fairfax 
to  stare  in  a  strange,  frightened  way  at  each  other. 

Quick  as  thought,  Fairfax  turned  his  pistol  at 
his  own  head,  but  the  man  Sam  struck  his  elbow 
such  a  blow  that  the  weapon  was  knocked  out  of 
his  hand  into  the  dark. 

"  Ef  I'd  'spicioned  ye  was  aimin'  ter  shoot  that 
shoot  at  youseff  Mist'  Rutherford,"  said  Dick,  "  I 
wudn't  'a'  sp'iled  you'  shootin'.  Boys,  let  'im  go. 
I  ain't  gwine  rue  back  on  nare  bargain.  Good 
night,  Mist'  Fairfax  Rutherford.  You'  the  onlies' 
cyoward  I  ever  knowed  er  you'  name.  You'  paw 
done  saved  his  money  an'  he  got  his  son  back, 
but  I  are  a  right  smart  mistaken  if  he  wudn't 
ruther  of  lost  ever'  cent  an'  had  his  son  killed  up 
than  git  him  back  this  a  way.  My  respecks  ter 
him,  an'  tell  him  Dick  Barnabas  ain't  paid  out  his 
accaount /^^  .''  " 


V. 

A  DELE  RUTHERFORD  had  done  what 
she  could  for  the  Fowlers.  She  had  per- 
suaded Mrs.  Fowler  to  lie  down  in  the  other  room 
with  her  baby.  The  children  were  asleep,  except 
Bud,  who  sat  by  the  bedside  whereon  his  father 
lay  in  his  poor  best  of  clothes,  with  Adele's  own 
handkerchief  bound  about  his  head.  Bud  looked 
at  him  and  thought.  Strange  thoughts  for  a  child 
to  know,  gropings  after  a  clew,  misty  plans  for 
vengeance,  images  of  the  murderer's  punishment 
over  which  his  fiery  young  soul  gloated  with  a 
thorough-going  ruthlessness  only  possible  to  chil- 
dren— and  women. 

Adele  was  opposite  him.  She  had  plenty  of 
perplexing  and  sorrowful  thoughts  to  harass  her, 
but  she  was  not  altogether  heavy-hearted.  Often 
she  reproached  herself  that  she  was  not,  the  tears 
springing  to  her  eyes  at  the  sight  of  the  motion- 
less form  on  the  bed,  and  the  memory  of  his 
sacrifice. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me,"  she  could  have  whispered  in 


EXP  J  A  TION.  95 

that  quiet  ear,  "  I  am  not  bad-hearted  ;  but,  you 
see,  Cousin  Fair  has  come." 

In  truth,  Cousin  Fair  had  occupied  a  much 
larger  place  in  Adele's  fancy  than  she  had  in  his. 
He  only  remembered  a  kind,  strong  girl,  whose 
frocks  were  always  being  torn  climbing  where 
little  girls  ought  not  to  climb.  Uncle  Fair  called 
her,  peevishly,  a  ''  perfect  Miss  Hoyden,"  and 
until  he  was  old  enough  to  read  English  comedies 
the  boy  puzzled  over  the  name.  Later,  there 
were  a  few  pictures  of  her  luring  him  into  break- 
neck sports ;  a  mild  one  was  sneaking  out  to  the 
pasture  to  ride  the  colts  that  Unk'  Ras'  was 
breaking;  and  a  pretty  mess  Miss  Adele  would 
make  of  a  clean  frock  on  these  jaunts !  Once  she 
was  thrown  into  a  thorn-bush.  Her  arm  was 
scratched  so  that  it  swelled  to  a  frightful  degree  ; 
but  she  would  not  let  him  say  anything  about  it. 
He  had  wept  over  the  piteous  sight,  but  she 
laughed  merrily,  and  vowed  that  it  didn't  hurt 
her.  Another  time,  one  of  Adele's  teeth  must  be 
pulled.  The  Colonel,  who  could  not  endure  to 
hear  a  child  cry,  promised  her  a  new  horse  if  she 
would  not  utter  a  sound.  She  stood  bravely  by 
her  bargain ;  but  really  it  profited  the  soft-hearted 
dentist   little,  because  Fair,  beholding  the    awful 


96  EXPTA  TION. 

preparations,  hid  in  the  room,  and  howled  at  the 
top  of  his  lungs.  During  their  early  childhood 
the  cousins  were  devoted  to  each  other.  Often, 
after  they  were  separated,  did  poor  little  Fair  sob 
himself  to  sleep  thinking  of  Delia — longing  for  his 
father  and  the  old  plantation  and  her.  But  chil- 
dren's griefs  are  transient ;  he  grew  fond  of  his 
English  nurse,  who  never  scared  him,  ''knowing 
her  duty  far  too  well,  sir,  to  hever  repeat  'orrid 
tales  to  children,  wich  she  had  knowed  a  most 
lovely  child  hit  gave  epileptic  fits  to,  and  ee  never 
cfrow^ed  no  more  in  consekense. "     And  his  uncle's 

o 

friends  had  children  who  took  Adele's  and  his 
brothers'  place. 

When  he  came  home  to  Arkansas,  on  his  one 
visit  there,  he  was  very  amiable  and  attentive  to 
Adele,  being  a  polite  little  boy  ;  but  privately  he 
thought  that  she  could  not  be  a  very  nice  little 
girl,  for  she  was  always  doing  those  things  which 
he  had  learned  that  nice  little  girls  never  did  ;  and 
she  was  very  ignorant,  not  able  to  talk  French  at 
all  and  not  knowing  any  of  the  Kings  of  England. 
Nevertheless  she  was  great  fun,  and  he  wished 
ardently  that  he  could  ride  and  swim  and  row 
like  the  young  romp.  ''  She's  awfully  brave, 
Uncle   Fair,   don't   you   think  ? "   he    said   to   his 


EXFIA  TION.  97 

uncle.  And  the  latter,  glancing  down  the  avenue 
at  a  joyful  procession  of  four  small  darkies  and 
a  calf,  with  Adele  hanging  on  to  its  tail,  had 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  grumbling,  ''  Brave  !  she 
hasn't  enough  sense  to  be  afraid  !  " 

Therefore  Fair's  approval  of  Adele  had  its  re: 
serves ;  not  so  her  admiration  of  him.  She 
thought  him  simply  the  prettiest,  sweetest,  and 
cleanest  little  boy  that  she  knew.  He  had  seen 
all  kinds  of  wonderful  things,  and  he  could  play 
the  fiddle  almost  as  well  as  Unk'  Rastus,  yet  he 
wasn't  biggitty — not  the  least  bit  on  earth. 

Uncle  Fairfax  did  Adele  injustice  ;  she  was 
clever  enough.  So  he  himself  concluded  when 
one  day  she  rested  two  sharp  elbows  on  the  horse- 
block by  the  steps,  tousled  hair  blown  about  her 
fair,  freckled  face,  plenty  of  burrs  in  her  skirts, 
and  her  hands  none  too  clean,  and  said,  slowly  : 
''  Unk'  Fairfax,  how  come  you'n  Fair  don't  talk 
like  we  all  ?  " 

Mrs.  Rutherford  was  in  the  gallery.  ''  There, 
Adele,"  she  exclaimed,  plaintively,  ''  I  am  glad 
you  are  beginning  to  see  what  I  tell  you  every 
day  on  earth.     But  you  will  talk  nigger  talk " 

''  Unk'  Fairfax  an'  Cousin  Fair  don't  talk  like 
you    neether,"    interrupted    the    girl,    unfilially. 


98 


EXP  I  A  TION. 


"  But  you  talk  sweeter'n  ary,"  she  added,  quickly, 
and  with  a  most  indecorous  handspring  she  landed 
on  the  gallery  floor  to  half  smother  her  mother 
with  kisses.  ''  Say,"  she  concluded,  "  I  ain't 
gwine  to  talk  nigger  talk  no  mo'.     You  see  !  " 

The  day  of  Fairfax  Rutherford's 
departure  Mrs.  Ruth- 
erford   dreaded   an 


"How  come  you'n  Fair  don't  talk  Ifke  we  all?  ' 


explosion  of  grief,  for  she  knew  the  child's  in- 
tense nature;  but  Adele  had  choked  back  her 
sobs,  thrust  all  her  childish  treasures  on  Fairfax 
— all,  that  is,  which  were  left,  since  for  a  week 
she  had  been  parting  with   them    one    by  one — 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION.  99 

and  she  had  stood  on  the  shore,  waving  a  dean 
new  handkerchief  until  the  boat  rounded  the 
bend.  But  then  Slick  Mose  could  not  run  faster 
than  she  sped  from  the  landing.  Away,  away 
into  the  woods,  where  there  were  no  houses,  no 
people,  where  a  desolate  little  girl  could  lie  flat 
on  the  ground  and  sob  and  cry  until  the  sun  set. 
Only  the  hawks  in  the  air  and  the  quails  hopping 
through  the  elbow-brush  could  hear  her.  They 
may  have  made  out  one  sentence  :  "  He  did  cry 
—a  little  !  " 

"  II y  a  toujours  Viin  qui  baise  et  V autre  qui  tend 
la  joueT     In  this    early   love-passage   Adele   was 
not,  as  behooved   a  nice  little  girl,  ''  the  one  who 
tenders  the  cheek."     But   presently  the  elasticity 
of  her  age   and   her  health   asserted   itself.     She 
turned  all  her  energy  into  the  task  of  transform- 
ing a   madcap    into   a  proper  young  lady.      She 
flung  herself  into  household  details  with  the  same 
enthusiasm  which  she  had  brought  to  the  boys* 
sports.     Neither  did  she  quite  give  up  the  sports  ; 
that  would  have  ''  mortified  "  the  boys.     This  was 
the  period  when  she  sought  for  the  Kings  of  Eng- 
land in  Macaulay,  and  conscientiously  read  every 
book   of   the  little  library,  from   the  ''  Essays  of 
Montaigne  "  to  '^  Youatt  on  the  Horse." 


lOO  EXPIATION. 

There  was  a  correspondence,  growing  more  and 
more  infrequent,  but  never  quite  failing;  for  Fair- 
fax, boy  though  he  was,  had  delicate  intuitions 
and  the  kindest  of  hearts.  He  knew  that  his  let- 
ters were  very  precious  to  Adele.  It  was  no  end 
of  a  bore  to  write,  but  he  did  write,  all  the  same, 
and  he  never  told  any  one  that  it  was  a  bore. 
Adele,  to-night,  in  that  miserable  room,  with  death 
and  despair  within  and  the  murderer  lurking  with- 
out, forgot  the  sinking  fortunes  of  her  famJly, 
forgot  her  own  sorrows  and  dangers,  forgot  that 
the  South  was  ruined,  and  let  her  thoughts  drift 
through  these  letters,  every  one  of  which  wove 
a  fresh  charm  about  her  hero.  Once  she  slipped 
her  hand  into  her  pocket  ;  there  was  a  faint  rustle 
as  of  paper.  The  truth  is,  there  were  a  few  letters 
in  her  pocket  ;  she  had  brought  them  with  her  to 
read  over  for — what  was  the  number  of  the  time  ? 
And  I  dare  say  Fairfax  found  one  perusal  of  the 
carefully  written  replies  quite  enough  to  satisfy 
him. 

If  Bud  had  not  been  present  she  would  have 
brought  out  the  letters  now.  Their  meeting  had 
been  strange  and  sad  and  hurried  ;  but  she  was 
more  than  satisfied.  She  expected  nothing  for  her- 
self, and  her  prince  was  all  that  she  had  dreamed. 


EXPIATION.  lOI 

A  sentence  from  Bud  aroused  her.  He  said  : 
"  Miss  Delia,  I  ben  studyin',  an'  I  reckon  I  kin 
tell  how  Dick  diskivered  'baout  that  ar  money." 

'*  How,  Bud  ?  Has  he  got  a  spy  on  the  planta- 
tion  r 

''  He  mought  hev.  He  got  one,  shore,  in  Jack- 
sonport.  Look  a  yere,  Miss  Delia,  I  seen  a  letter 
to  Ole  Man  Parnish  daown  tuh  Mis'  Craowder's 
las'  week.  She  sayd  he  got  'em  riglar,  an'  they 
come  from  Jacksonport,  an'  she  'lowed  he  war 
waitin'  on  number  two,  kase  of  his  wife  died  up 
las'  month.  But  I  don't,  Miss  Delia.  Them  let- 
ters ben  writ  tew  cl'ar  an'  slick  fur  are  gyurl  wad 
take  up  with  him.  I  say  them  letters  come  from 
Dick  Barnabas's  spy.  Ye  knows  Ole  Man  Parnish 
is  powerful  thick  with  Dick.  'Nuther  thing.  Miss 
Delia,  oner  them  letters  come  the  verry  same 
day  the  money  come.  Mis'  Craowder  done  tole 
paw  when  she  sent  the  word.  Dick  Barnabas 
ben  a  watchin'  the  hull  bilin'  er  us.  Reckon 
he  knows  Mist'  Fairfax  Rutherford  done  come, 
tew." 

Adele  recoiled. 

"  Mabbe,"  Bud  went  on,  with  the  merciless 
directness  of  childhood,  ''  mabbe  they  didn't  jest 
know  who'd  get  the   money,  an'   they   killed    off 


I02  EXPIATION. 

paw  fust,  an'    some    more    ben    waiiiin'  on    Mist' 
Rutherford  furder  daown  the  road." 

"God  forbid  !  "  cried  Adele. 

'•'  I  don't  want  'im  fur  tuh  git  hurted,  neether. 
I  want  'im  tuh  holp  we  uns  kill  Dick."  The  boy 
looked  about  him  with  a  kind  of  shamefaced  look, 
and  lowered  his  voice  :  '*  Say,  Miss  Delia,  I  are  so 
sick  'er  them  graybacks  I  'most  wisht  the  Yanks 
wud  come.  We  cud  sell  the  cotton,  onyhow.  A 
passle  of  fellers  sayd  they  ben  Marmaduke's  men, 
an'  putt  out  a  fire  in  we  all's  cotton  patch  ;  but 
paw  he  got  the  jug  an'  guv  'em  a  drink  an'  talked 
tuh  'em,  an'  they  didn't  putt  out  a  much  good 
fire,  an'  ayfter  they  ben  gone,  paw  an'  I  packed 
up  water  from  the  creek  an'  throwed  it  on  ;  but 
we  all's  tew  bales  at  Bolus's  gin,  the  graybacks 
burned  them  when  they  burned  the  gin.  Now, 
Miss  Delia,  they  says  we  all  is  fightin'  fur  our 
homes  an'  property,  but  looks  like  when  we  git 
done  fightin'  we  wunt  have  no  property  leff,  kase 
our  own  folks  is  burned  it  all  up." 

"  It  was  to  prevent  its  falling  into  the  Yankees' 
hands,"  said  Adele ;  "  but  I  don't  think  it  was 
right  to  impoverish  us  all  on  a  chance  of  its  hurt- 
ing the  enemy.  I  don't  believe  General  Lee  or 
Mr.  Davis  knows  anything  about  it." 


o 


EXPIATION.    .  103 

Adele  shared  the  Southern  worship  of  Lee,  and 
had  a  feminine  loyalty  in  the  teeth  of  facts. 

*' You  got  you'  cotton  off  slick,"  said  Bud; 
''you  done  it,  tew."     He  gazed  at  her  admiringly. 

'*  There  was  no  one  else  to  do  it.  Unk'  Ralph 
was  away  in  the  army,  and  ayfter  all  our  trouble 
to  make  that  crop  I  wasn't  going  to  lose  it.  Who 
do  you  reckon  showed  us  where  to  hide  it  ?  " 

''Slick  Mose?" 

"  Yes,  Slick  Mose,  and  the  creature  was  pleased 
as  pleased  to  see  them  all  hunting.  They  were 
very  civil,  poor  fellows.  It  was  an  ungracious 
duty ;  but  they  weren't  to  blame.  They  set  the 
fields  afire  and  burned  up  what  was  left  afield  ; 
but  it  wasn't  much,  and  a  month  ayfter  the  Fed- 
erals came  and  I  sold  that  Jew  at  Jacksonport  the 
cotton — what  is  it  ?  " 

The  boy  was  on  his  knees  by  the  door,  listening. 
Adele  joined  him. 

*'  It  is  the  splash  of  a  boat,"  she  whispered  ; 
''  somebody  is  coming  down  Running  Water  in  a 
boat." 

'*  He's  got  aout,"  said  the  boy. 

They  waited  breathlessly  until  a  scratching 
noise  was  heard  at  the  door,  accompanied  by  a 
kind  of  whine  such  as  a  dog  makes. 


I04  EXPIATION. 

'*  It's  Mose!"  cried  Adele,  unbarring  the  door. 
"  Here,  Mose  !  " 

The  ragged  and  soaked  shape  darted,  half- 
crouching,  into  the  room  to  fling  itself  at  Adele's 
feet,  gesticulating  and  moaning.  He  would  run 
away  for  a  little  space  and  then  return,  all  the 
while  shrilly  entreating. 

Bud,  as  fearless  a  youngster  as  ever  lived  in  the 
bottom,  put  a  safe  distance  between  himself  and 
the  fluttering,  jabbering  creature. 

Adele  had  grown  very  white.  ''  Somebody  is 
hurt,"  she  murmured  ;  ''  he  wants  me  to  go  with 
him.     I  hate  terribly  to  leave  you  all —    Hark  !  " 

Mose  crouched  on  the  ground  as  if  he  would 
hide  behind  Adele  ;  he  trembled  until  his  teeth 
chattered.  The  sound  was  the  soft,  prolonged 
swish  of  horses'  feet  wading  through  mud. 

Adele  peered  through  the  crack.  Morning,  wan 
and  gray,  was  creeping  over  the  low  cotton-fields 
and  the  ragged  black  forest.  She  could  see  Dick 
Barnabas  with  four  men,  riding  down  into  the 
ford.  One  of  the  men  led  "he  famous  white 
horse,  while  Dick  rode  a  white  mule. 

"  That  ar's  Parson  Collins's  Ma'y  Jane,"  cried 
Bud,  *'an'— oh,  Lordy,  Miss  Delia,  thar's  Betty 
Ward  !     D'ye  reckon  they  all  got  that  money  ?  " 


0) 

< 

c 
a 


(/i 


Mm^.-^^^ 


EXP  I  A  TION,  105 

Ad^le  had  risen,  ashy  pale  ;  she  made  ready 
swiftly  to  go  with  Slick  Mose,  saying,  while  her 
shaking  hands  caught  at  her  hat:  ''You're  safe 
now.  Bud  ;  they  won't  come  back  after  they  have 
passed  the  house.  I'll  send  Mose  back  home, 
and  we  will  send  out  to  you  to-morrow." 

Of  the  terrible  fear  in  her  heart  she  could  not 
speak ;  but  Mose  was  not  more  anxious  to  go 
than  she.  Slick  Mose  had  the  preacher's  ''  ba- 
teau." He  could  row,  as  he  could  swim,  better 
than  any  sane  man  around.  He  sent  the  rude 
boat  forward  with  frenzied  vigor.  Once,  lifting 
his  oar,  he  pointed  to  the  western  sky  and  Adele's 
heart  contracted ;  she  knew  that  no  sunrise  ever 
painted  that  lurid  and  flickering  glare.  At  last 
the  boat  halted  under  the  cypresses.  No  one  but 
Adele  would  have  leaped  unhesitatingly  from  log 
to  log,  to  follow  Mose  into  the  brake.  Were  the 
path  through  quagmires  she  must  have  followed 
him,  for  now  a  hollow,  crackling  sound  could  be 
heard  and  showers  of  sparks  streamed  upward. 
Slick  Mose  was  running,  uttering  his  half-animal 
cry  of  pain.  He  chose  the  path  so  skilfully  that 
not  once  did  their  feet  sink  below  the  surface. 
Fleet  of  foot  as  the  idiot  was,  Adele  kept  close 
to  him.     They  emerged  into  the  open. 


Io6  EXP  I  A  TION. 

Parson  Collins's  house  was  blazing  before  them, 
aflame  now  from  pillar  to  roof-tree :  but  not  a 
human  creature  was  in  sight.  Mose  ran  to  the 
sycamore  to  which  the  preacher  had  been  bound. 
Blood-stains  on  the  trampled  ground,  embers  of 
a  fire,  sparks  from  which  had  probably  set  the 
house  afire  ;  on  one  side  a  litter  of  pawpaw  bark, 
footprints  everywhere  of  men  and  horses — one 
could  still  see  these,  but  if  Mose  had  left  any 
dead  witness  of  a  crime,  whose  wounds  might 
appeal  to  the  indignation  of  men,  the  smoke  and 
flame  hid  his  fate. 

There  was  something  tragical  about  the  spec- 
tacle ;  the  absence  of  all  the  stir  and  bustle  and 
outcry  usual  to  such  a  calamity,  the  lonely  house, 
with  its  gaping  doors  and  windows,  burning  un- 
heeded. 

Slick  Mose  would  have  rushed  into  the  flames 
had  not  Adele,  half  by  force,  half  by  persuasion, 
withheld  him.  Sick  with  indescribable  apprehen- 
sion, she  screamed,  ''Mr.  Collins!"  and  "Cousin 
Fair!"  until  her  voice  failed  her.  All  at  once 
Mose  wrenched  himself  from  her  grasp  and  began 
to  dart  round  the  house,  at  intervals  stooping  to 
examine  the  ground,  uttering  long  wails  like  a 
dog  when  he  trees  a  coon.     In  another  moment 


EXPIATION.  107 

he  bounded  into  the  forest.  She  followed  him  ; 
the  creature's  instinct  was  her  sole  dependence. 
It  did  not  fail  her  either,  for  a  little  space  in  the 
wood  they  came  upon  an  insensible,  dishevelled 
figure  lying  half  on  a  log,  while  an  old  negro 
woman  alternately  wailed  and  flung  water  over 
the  pallid  face,  and  two  small  children  whimpered 
with  fright  on  either  side. 

Adele  darted  forward  ;  she  had  recognized  Par- 
son Collins's  old  cook,  Aunt  Mollie  Collins. 

"  O  my  heabenly  Marster  !  "  shrieked  Aunt 
Mollie;  "  O  Miss  Delia,  de  graybacks  done  make 
dis  po'  boy  kill  old  Marse.  Ole  Marse  make  me 
run  fo'  de  woods  an  I  seen — I  seen — dey  burn 
'im  wid  de  fire — O  Lawdy  !  Lawdy  !  "  She  burst 
into  incoherent  wailings.  Then  it  was  that  Adele 
bent  over  her  cousin  with  that  cry  which  Mose 
had  tried  to  copy,  *'  O  Fair  !  O  Fair  !  " 

He  opened  his  eyes  ;  they  were  the  blank, 
glassy  eyes  of  insanity.  Yet  he  knew  her. 
"Adele,"  whispered  he,  "listen;  don't  tell  my 
father,  it's  a  secret.  I'm  the  only  Rutherford 
that  ever  was  a  coward." 


VI. 

FAIRFAX  RUTHERFORD  awoke  from  his 
delirium  in  the  chamber  which  had  been  his 
as  a  little  boy.  In  his  ravings  he  was  continually 
begging  them  to  find  Slick  Mose  ;  Slick  Mose  had 
the  money.  ''  That's  all  I  can  do  for  them  now," 
he  would  add.  "  Don't  let  them  know  about 
me. 

It  was  Adele  who  had  divined  that  there  was 
something  in  this  iteration  of  Slick  Mose's  pres- 
ence. She  sought  Mose  the  instant  that  the  idiot 
returned  to  the  plantation,  which  he  did  on  the 
day  following,  starved,  dirty,  and,  after  his  brute 
fashion,  perceptibly  unhappy.  She  followed  him 
into  the  swamp  and  brought  back  the  money. 

But  there  was  little  enough  rejoicing  over  its 
recovery.  Fairfax's  frenzied  sentences  had  evoked 
phantoms  of  dishonor  to  flit  like  carrion-crows 
before  his  father's  eyes. 

What  was  the  money  worth,  if  those  dark  mis- 
givings were  true  ? 

Adele   wondered   drearily   how   many  lives  the 


EXPIATION.  109 

saving  of  the  money  had  cost,  and  the  taint  of 
blood  seemed  in  the  air  ;  while  Mrs.  Rutherford 
stood  in  such  abject  fear  of  the  graybacks  that 
she  regarded  the  possession  of  so  large  a  sum  as 
simply  inviting  destruction. 

The  Colonel  at  first  had  been  absorbed  in  his 
anxiety  for  Fairfax's  life.  He  would  not  leave 
him  day  nor  night ;  he  was  questioning  every- 
body, watching  every  medicine.  But  lately,  after 
one  interview  with  Aunt  Mollie,  he  had  shrunk 
into  a  strange  silence. 

It  was  a  sad  house,  truly  enough ;  the  very 
negroes  were  dejected.  Aunt  Hizzie  cuffed  and 
scolded  her  helpers  in  the  kitchen,  and  bickered 
with  Unk'  Nels  in  the  gallery  whenever  they  met. 
The  subject  of  dispute,  usually,  was  no  less  than 
the  efficacy  of  her  "  mixteries."  Nels  would  not 
carry  them  upstairs.  Being  Aunt  Hizzie's  hus- 
band, he  had  a  wide  experience  of  her  physic ; 
and  his  was  the  tongue  of  the  scoffer.  Moreover, 
though  nature  had  muffled  his  utterance,  she  had 
left  the  cutting  edge  to  his  wit. 

Aunt  Hizzie  was  not  so  agile  of  mind  as  her 
husband,  but  she  could  keep  up  a  fight  longer, 
whence,  on  the  whole,  they  were  pretty  evenly 
matched.      Aunt    Hizzie's   strong   argument   was 


no  EXPIATION. 

her  own  robust  health.  "  Look  ^!  yoti  " — this  was 
a  favorite  taunt — ''  punyin'  roun'  de  plumb  w'ile. 
Look  a'  me,  stout  an'  gayly !  How  came  dat 
differ?     You  doesn't  take  my  mixteries ;  I  does!  " 

''  I  done  take  too  many  dem  mixteries,  dat 
whut  make  me  puny,"  Unk'  Nels  would  retort. 
Once  he  added  :  ''  Marse  Fair  nearly  'bout  daid 
a'ready  ;  reckon  dey  kill  him  off,  sho." 

''  Is  you  seen  'im  dis  mawnin'?"  Aunt  Hizzie's 
real  affection  for  the  family  called  a  truce  to  the 
squabble. 

"  Ya'as,  I  has,  Hizzie,"  Unk'  Nels  replied,  with 
solemnity  ;  ''  fever  yent  cooled  a  mite.  An'  he 
plumb  outer  his  haid.     Skreeches  turrible." 

"  Heabenly  goodnis!      Whut  he  say,  Nels?" 

"■  Same  like  he  done  say  ever'  day  :  '  /  ivill  not  ! 
I  will  not  /  I  zvill  not  r  dat  away.  Hollers  hit 
loud  I  Den  he  talk  'bout  li'le  black  cat  ain't  got 
nare  haid,  talk  right  smart  'bout  dat  'ar.  Wen  I 
fotch  'im  de  wine,  he  look  a'  me  pow'ful  cu'ris 
way,  an'  he  ax  me,  Is  de  Gunnel  his  fader?  an' 
w'en  I  says,  '  Ya'as,  sah,'  he  twurn  his  haid  topper 
de  pilly  so  he  kin  look  a'  de  Gunnel,  an'  he  say, 
*  Howdy,  sah ;  does  you  know  I  is  de  onlies' 
Rutherford  evah  ben  a  cyoward?'  Say,  Hizzie, 
dat  boy  must  *a'  did  sumfin  turrible  !  " 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION.  1 1 1 

Aunt  Hizzie  snorted  contempt  almost  beyond 
words:  "  I'se  p'intedly  mortified  at  ye,  Nelson, 
gwine  on  dat  a  way  'bout  you'  young  marse,  you 
ornery,  pusillanimous,  triflin',  black  nigger!" 

*'  Hizzie,"  interrupted  Nels,  calmly,  "you  minds 
me  dem  Chrismus  pop-crackers  like  de  'postle  de- 
scribe—all soun'  an'  fury  signifyin'  nary  !  Cayn't 
my  young  marse  ben  a  cyoward  jes'  much  iz  are 
torrer  cullud  pusson's  young  marse  ?  Somebuddy  s 
young  marse  got  tuh  be  cyowards  !  Naw,  Hizzie, 
gittin'  mad  doan'  stop  Marse  Fair  bein'  a  cyow- 
ard. I  ain't  cravin'  tuh  'low  he  done  ben  sich  iz 
dat,  but  looks  like — looks  like.  He  done  some 
turrible  meanness  onyhow  !  " 

Upstairs  the  wretched  father  heard  every  word. 
So  did  Adele.  The  man's  head  fell.  The  girl 
lifted  hers  higher,  as  the  color  flamed  in  her 
cheek. 

**  Even  my  niggers  know  it,"  groaned  Colonel 
Rutherford  ;  "  '  I  have  lived  a  day  too  long.' 
Thank  God,  my  brave  boys  are  dead  !  " 

''  You  have  one  brave  boy  alive,"  said  Adele, 
steadily. 

The  Colonel,  having  a  broken  leg,  could  not 
jump  up  and  pace  the  floor ;  he  only  shrunk  lower 
into  his  chair,  as  if  she  had  struck  him  a  blow. 


1 1 2  ExriA  tion: 

"  What  can  I  think,  Delia  ?  "  he  said,  miserably. 
*'  You  know  what  Aunt  Mollie  tells.  He — he  says 
he  killed  him.  He  keeps  accusing  himself  of — " 
the  Colonel  choked  over  the  word — ''  you  heard 
tJiem''  he  said,  jerking  his  hand  downward  to 
imply  the  dusky  gossips  below. 

"  If  he  is  against  himself,"  said  Adele,  firmly, 
*'  all  the  more  reason  his  own  kin  should  stick  to 
him.     I  know  he  isn't — that  !  " 

The  Colonel  turned  on  his  niece  a  face  in  which 
an  agonizing  dread  was  struggling  with  a  timid 
hope ;  he  bit  his  dry  lips  before  he  could  say  : 
"  Delia,  did — did  you — you  were  with  him  a  good 
deal  in  his  young  days — did  you  observe  any  lack 
of  spirit — the  others  were  so  high-spirited  that  the 
contrast  might  make  him  seem — ah — tame,  like — 
but  I  don't  mean  that,  you  understand ;  I  mean — 
if  he  had  been  a  Yankee  boy  "  (oh,  what  a  com- 
parison for  a  Southerner !)  ''  would  you  have 
'lowed  there  ben  anything  wrong  'bout  him  ?  " 

Adele,  whose  high  color  had  faded,  did  not  meet 
the  old  soldier's  imploring  eyes. 

"  He  was  always  right  delicate,  Unk'  Ralph," 
she  said,  hurriedly,  *'  and  Mammy  would  tell  him 
the  awfullest  stories ;  they  made  him  scared, 
like — "     Somehow  she   could  not    get   any  more 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION.  1 1 3 

words  out  of  her  throat.  The  old  man  took  his 
gray  head  into  his  hands,  saying,  huskily,  **  Mam- 
my's fool  talk  didn't  scare  you  !  " 

*'  Oh,  but  I  was  older." 

•'You  were  a  year  older.  She  didn't  scare  Jeff 
or  Rafe.     But  what's  the  use  ?  " 

Adele  persisted  :  "  We  really  don't  know  any- 
thing. He's  just  crazy,  like.  Talking  about  kill- 
ing Parson  Collins  !  Why  w^asn't  he  somewhere 
'round  if  he  was  killed  ?  Dead  men  can't  walk 
off.  And — and  I  had  Aunt  MoUie,  soon  as  she 
and  the  children  went  back  to  their  cabin,  I  had 
them  and  two  of  our  men  look  all  over  the  ruins. 
And  there  wasn't  a  trace  of  any  human  body  in 
those  ashes.  He  couldn't  be  burnt  up  to  7ioth- 
ing  ! 

''  AdMe,"  said  the  Colonel,  *'  what  did  Aunt 
Mollie  tell  you  ?  Oh,  you  needn't  tell  me.  I've 
seen  her.  She  seen  them  torturing  him.  She 
seen  him — give  in."     He  turned  his  head  away. 

"She  was  too  far  off  to  tell  anything,"  cried 
Adele  ;  ''  somebody  shot  a  pistol,  so  she  lays  it  on 
Fair.  How  could  she  tell  ?  If  he  did  fire  that 
pistol  he  did  it  when  he  was  crazy.  They  drove 
him  crazy." 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out  ?  "  said  the  Colo- 


114  EXPIATION. 

nel.  He  did  not  look  up  or  he  would  have  seen 
how  Fairfax  had  ceased  his  moaning  of  one  phrase 
and  was  looking  full  at  his  father. 

But  Adele  saw. 

In  a  second  the  wild,  wide  eyes  closed  ;  Fairfax 
lay  quietly,  as  if  asleep.  Adele  motioned  at  him. 
She  rose  directly  and  arranged  the  coverings  more 
smoothly,  listening  meanwhile.  He  lay  so  quietly 
that  she  smiled  sorrowfully  at  her  thought  that  he 
could  he  returning  to  his  senses  and  have  under- 
stood. "  Fast  asleep,"  she  whispered,  passing  the 
Colonel ;  "  I  must  go  see  to  his  soup." 

Nevertheless,  her  first  impression  was  the  true 
one — Fairfax  had  heard  and  understood. 

She  wheeled  the  Colonel's  chair  near  the  bed 
in  order  that  he  might  hand  Fairfax  his  drink  if 
he  asked  for  it.  Then  her  soft  footstep  passed 
through  the  hall,  down  the  stair. 

The  Colonel  sat  looking  at  his  boy,  whose  deli- 
cate beauty  was  so  like  his  mother's.  The  brow 
did  not  frown  nor  the  lips  quiver;  no  muscle  of 
the  sensitive  mask  betrayed  the  ever-swelling 
tide  of  memory  and  despair  breaking  like  a  sea 
over  the  sleeper's  heart.  Unavailing  pity  for 
his  father,  unavailing  gratitude  to  Adele,  were 
stronger  than  remorse  or  shame.     The  bed  gave  a 


EXP  I  A  TION,  115 

little  creak  and  rustle.  The  Colonel  was  leaning 
one  elbow  on  the  mattress  and  bending  over  him ; 
he  felt  a  trembling  light  touch  on  his  hair  and  a 
tear  rolled  down  his  cheek — a  tear  not  from  his 
own  eyes  ;  his  father  had  kissed  him. 

He  lay  motionless  as  before,  but  something 
warm  stole  into  his  chilled  heart. 

He  waited  until  his  father  should  resume  his 
former  position,  and  enough  time  should  elapse  to 
make  it  appear  that  he  had  not  been  disturbed, 
for  he  had  the  Anglo-Saxon  shrinking  from  a  dis- 
play of  emotion  ;  then  he  moved  and  opened  his 
eyes. 

''  Good  morning,  sir,"  said  he. 

*'  Good  morning,  Fair,"  said  the  Colonel ;  "  feel- 
ing pearter?  " 

''  Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  that's  right,  but  you  hadn't  ought  to 
talk." 

That  was  all.  The  Colonel  read  "  Montaigne," 
upside  down.  He  always  read  "  Montaigne " 
when  he  was  in  trouble  ;  he  would  snatch  up  a 
volume  at  moments  of  special  strain,  open  it  any- 
where, and  read  desperately  for  a  few  pages  until 
he  was  sure  of  his  composure. 

But  to-day  he  was  past  *'  Montaigne."     His  eyes 


Il6  EXPIATION. 

saw  nothing.  His  hands  trembled  so  that  he 
could  not  hold  the  book  steady,  and,  at  last,  he 
laid  it  down. 

Fairfax  pretended  to  fall  asleep  again.  Noth- 
ing- further  was  said  between  the  two.  When 
Adele  came  into  the  room,  and  the  Colonel  had 
gone,  he  beckoned  to  her  to  come  nearer,  and  said  : 
*■'  Slick  Mose  has  the  money." 

"•  No,  Cousin  Fair,  we  have  the  money,"  she  an- 
swered, as  quietly  as  if  this  were  not  his  first  lucid 
speech.  '^  "When  you  were  sick  you  told  us,  and 
we've  got  it." 

''  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  Fairfax.  He  turned 
to  the  wall  and  slept.  When  the  doctor  (who 
rode  fifteen  miles  every  other  day  to  Montaigne) 
saw  his  patient,  he  pronounced  the  fever  broken. 
In  a  few  days  it  was  quite  gone.  Yet  Fairfax's 
condition  did  not  seem  to  mend.  One  who  had 
known  the  merry  young  fellow  would  hardly  have 
recognized  this  changed,  unsmiling  man,  who 
never  complained,  never  was  pleased,  and  spent 
most  of  his  time  furtively  watching  a  melancholy 
elderly  man  seated  by  his  window,  book  in  hand, 
all  day  long  and  late  into  the  night. 

Colonel  Rutherford  seldom  addressed  his  son ; 
Fairfax  never  spoke  to  his  father. 


EX  PI  A  TIOiV. 


117 


•*  Delia,  I'm  worried  to  death  about  him,"  Mrs. 
Rutherford  confessed  ;  "  he  didn't  take  on  like 
this  when  Jeff  and  Ralph  were  taken — he'd  cry 
and  talk  about  them,  and  he  was  all  broken  down 
with  grieving ; 
but  now,  Delia, 
he  won't  talk  to 
me.  He  cayn't 
seem  to  bear  to  '^^ 
speak  a  word  to 
anybod}'- — j  u  st 
sits  and  studies. 
He  ain't  reading 
that  book  ;  it's 
always  open  at 
the  same  place, 
and  he  never 
turns  the  leaves. 
And  his  eyes, 
Delia,  have  you 
noticed  how 
they  look  at  you 
and  don't  seem  to  see  you  ?  It  fairly  gives  me 
the  all-overs.  I  wish  to  mercy  Fair  had  never 
come  ;  he  never  was  good  to  him,  like  the  dear 
boys,  and  now  he  has  killed  him."     The  speech, 


"He  has   no  one   but  nne,"   she  prayed;   "help 
me  tc  help  him." 


1 1 8  EXP  I  A  TJON. 

SO  unlike  Mrs.  Rutherford's  gentle  talk,  ended  in 
a  burst  of  tears.  Adele  did  not  answer  a  word. 
She  soothed  and  caressed  her  mother,  and  made 
her  a  cup  of  their  dwindling,  precious  tea,  and 
put  her  to  bed  for  a  little  time. 

Then  she  went  out  into  the  woods,  those  same 
woods  which  had  witnessed  her  bitter  grief  when 
Fair  left  her  last.  This  time  she  did  not  weep. 
She  leaned  against  a  tree — for,  indeed,  she  had 
need  of  support — while  her  hopeless  eyes  looked 
down  the  darkening  river ;  and  prayed.  "  He  has 
no  one  but  me,"  she  prayed  ;  ''  help  me  to  help 
him  !  " 

There  are  loves  and  loves  ;  but  of  all  loves,  what 
has  more  of  that  quality  which  our  aspirations 
name  celestial  than  the  love  which  may  not  look 
up  to  its  object,  yet  will  not  look  down,  and 
under  all  the  cruel  mockery  of  failure  sees  the 
soul's  divine  struggle,  and  so  forgives  and  loves 
and  cherishes  to  the  end  ?  Such  love  contains 
more  than  protecting  tenderness,  like  the  affec- 
tion of  a  mother  for  a  deformed  child  ;  it  not  only 
pities,  it  comprehends  and  hopes. 

Poor  Adele  had  been  worshipping  a  magnifi- 
cent cavalier  ;  put  to  the  test  he  seemed  to  have 
turned  into  a  worthless  craven  and  betrayer.     But 


EXPIATION.  119 

her  faith  did  not  desert  him ;  she  had  all  a 
Southern  girl's  contempt  for  cowardice  in  a  man, 
and  her  own  temperament  was  singularly  fearless  ; 
nevertheless  she  clung  to  Fairfax.  She  remem- 
bered his  childish  days,  going  back  to  Fair's 
imaginary  terrors,  painfully  piecing  together  half- 
forgotten  circumstances  to  get  a  clear  argument 
of  the  case.  Fair,  in  fact,  had  the  timidity  of  a 
delicate  and  imaginative  child,  just  the  timidity 
to  be  outgrown  with  years,  sense,  and  health. 
She  remembered  instance  after  instance  when  he 
had  overcome  it.  There  was  the  time  she  pulled 
that  trifling,  onery  Tick  Robbins  out  of  the  river 
— Fair  had  been  rooted  to  the  bank  panic-smit- 
ten;  but  when,  at  the  last,  both  Tick  and  she 
clinging  to  the  branches  of  the  willow,  the  branch 
had  broken  and  they  were  drifting  helplessly 
down  the  eddy,  it  was  Fair  who  came  trembling 
over  the  edge  and  crawled  along  the  water-oak 
branch  and  pulled  it  down  by  his  weight,  so  that 
they  could  hang  on  to  his  legs,  and  actually  were 
rescued  in  that  position. 

How  well  she  remembered  the  way  the  Colonel 
laughed  till  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks ;  but  he 
took  Fair  on  his  knee  and  kissed  him,  and  gave 
him  a  ''  truly  silver  watch  "  for  his  own  because 


I20  EXPIATION, 

he  had  been  a  brave  boy.  And  with  a  thrill  she 
remembered,  too,  that  Fair  had  dropped  his  eyes 
with  a  red  face  and  in  such  a  tremulous  whisper 
replied,  "But,  paw,  I  wasn't  brave,  I  was  terribly 
scared  up  at  first."  The  Colonel  caught  the  boy 
to  his  breast  and  his  own  voice  was  a  little  husky 
as  he  said,  "Boy,  remember  it  ain't  how  you  f-feel, 
it's  what  you  d-do  that  counts." 

It  was  long  after  this  that  Fair  went  on  the 
annual  wild-hog  hunt.  How  white  he  looked  as 
they  sat  on  their  horses  before  the  gallery,  at 
starting ;  but  he  came  back  jubilant,  excited, 
eager  to  talk  about  the  run  and  the  sport.  And 
there  was  the  time  with  the  rattlesnake.  They 
came  upon  him  in  their  walks  and  Fair  took  to 
his  heels  ;  but  he  came  back  and  helped  Adele 
kill  the  snake.  He  said  :  "  I  thought  you  were 
running  too,  Adele."  When  the  snake  was  dead 
he  shivered  and  sat  down,  pale  and  sick ;  she 
thought  that  he  must  be  "chilling."  But  surely, 
surely  he  was  not  so  easily  startled  the  last  time 
he  visited  the  plantation  ;  he  no  longer  feared  the 
dark,  or  ran  from  a  tarantula,  or  crossed  the  fields 
to  shun  a  bull,  or  looked  askance  at  the  cows ; 
and  he  went  to  that  hunt  and  rode  with  the  rest 
if  he  did   look  pale   at   starting.     Recapitulating 


EXPIATION.  121 

and  studying  every  incident  Adele  made  her  own 
theory,  her  own  apology  (using  the  word  in  the 
sense  of  the  early  Christian  theologists)  for  Fairfax. 

But  she  did  not  dare  to  hope  that  he,  least  of 
all,  would  accept  it  for  himself.  She  knew  that  his 
father  would  not ;  while  her  mother's  attitude  was 
hopeless.  She  could  not  stay  long  by  herself. 
Half  an  hour  later  she  was  back  by  Fairfax's  side. 

Aunt  Hizzie  stalked  about  the  gallery  below  in 
deepest  gloom.  "  Look  a'  dat  serv^ah  !  "  *  she 
proclaimed,  dismally  ;  "  he  yent  et  a  mite.  Nev* 
does  eat.  An'  he  yent  ill,  least  bit  on  yearth. 
He  does  be  fixin'  tuh  die,  sho  !  " 

"  How  come  ye  don't  be  totin'  him  up  some 
you'  sut-tea,f  den?  Ye  'lows  dat  cure  ever'ting," 
said  Unk'  Nels,  the  cynic. 

"  Ef  he  ben  had  dat  tea  studdy,"  returned  she, 
''  he  ben  better'n  he  am  now.  Law  me,  I  cayn't 
git  up  nare  burryin'  dinner  dese  times — no  sody, 
no  flour,  no  raisins  nur  lemons,  an'  dem  'lasses 
nearly  'bout  gone  tew  !  An'  who'll  preach  de 
fun'al,  now  Parson  Collins  done  ben  killed  up  ? 
Tell  me  dat,  will  ye,  ye  fool  nigger  ?  " 

*  Server — tray  ;  African  for  salver,  probably, 
f  Soot-tea  is  a  remedy  in  high  esteem  with  the  negroes.     It  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  chimney  soot  and  water. 


122  EXPIATION. 

Like  most  of  the  pair's  dialogues  this  was  dis- 
tinctly audible  above. 

*'  Poor  Aunt  Hizzie,"  said  Fairfax;  ''she  takes 
such  pride  in  her  '  burryin'  dinners,'  and  mine  Vvi'J 
be  but  a  poor  affair.  I  am  a  disgrace  all  around, 
you  see,  Adele." 

He  looked  up  to  meet  Adele's  wet  eyes.  She 
flashed  one  glance  at  the  Colonel ;  his  head  rested 
peacefully  on  the  back  of  the  chair — ''  Mon- 
taigne "  had  slipped  from  his  fingers.  For  a  while 
he  had  forgotten  his  troubles. 

*'  Oh,  I  cayn't  bear  it,"  she  said,  and  hid  her 
face. 

The  instinct  of  a  gentleman  made  Fairfax  rouse 
himself  to  comfort  her. 

*'  Oh,  you  know  you  mustn't,"  he  said.  '^  Adele, 
dear  Adele,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

She  was  near  enough  for  him  to  be  trying  to 
take  her  hands  away.  They  fell,  and  he  held 
them.  A  deep  flush  spread  over  her  face.  Their 
eyes  met.  Suddenly  he  dropped  her  hands  with 
a  kind  of  groan. 

At  once  all  the  nurse  in  her  awoke.  "  Does 
your  shoulder  hurt  you  ?  "  she  said,  quickly. 

"  No,"  said  he,  ''  I  had  forgotten  for  a  second 
what  I  am — and  I  remembered." 


EXPIATION.  123 

Adele  did  not  blush  again  ;  she  looked  at  him 
steadily  as  she  said,  "  Cousin  Fair,  you  are  aiming 
to  die  !  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Cousin  Fair,"  she  said,  slowly,  '*  would  it  hurt 
you  too  much  to  tell  me  about  it  all  ?  I  don't 
know  anything  :  I  only  guess  at  things." 

He  only  hesitated  a  moment  ;  then  the  whole 
miserable  story  came— at  first,  with  a  bitter  sort 
of  self-control ;  but  before  he  ended  he  was  sob- 
bing as  uncontrollably  as,  when  a  terrified  child, 
he  used   to  be  comforted  back  to  courage  in  her 

arms. 

*'  Poor  Fair,  poor  Fair,"  she  murmured,  stretch- 
ing out  her  hand  and  patting  his  as  his  mother 
might  ;  "  Fm  sure  you  didn't  know  you  were  doing 
it.  They  drove  you  crazy  with  their  wicked  tor- 
ments. And  you  were  wounded  and  almost  dead, 
too.  You  would  have  withstood  them  if  you 
hadn't  been  wounded." 

But  he  was  too  honest  to  accept  her  comfort. 

''  No,  they  didn't,"  he  cried  ;  '*  I  knew  perfectly. 
But  I  don't  understand  it,  Adele  :  I  was  horribly 
scared,  and  the  pain  drove  me  frantic  ;  but  I  was 
resolved  to  let  them  kill  me  rather  than  yield.  I 
was  saying,    '  I  will   not,    I  will    not,'  to    myself. 


124  EXPIATION. 

And  even  while  I  said  it — I  must  have "     He 

groaned  again. 

"  Did  the  men  hold  your  hand  ?  " 

*'  One  held  my  arm  and  another  one  my  wrist 
and  part  of  my  hand,  so  I  couldn't  drop  the  pis- 
tol :  but  I  know  he  didn't  pull  the  trigger,  for  I 
overheard  him  telling  the  other  fellow  that  he 
wished  Dick  would  let  the  old  man  off.  No,  I 
must  have  done  it,  Adele,  and  now  you  see  why 
it  is  better  for  every  one  to  have  me  die  ! " 

'*  No,  Cousin  Fair,  I  don't,"  cried  Adele  ;  "  don't 
you  think  at  all  about  us — about  him?"  moving 
her  head  in  the  Colonel's  direction. 

Fairfax's  lips  trembled  into  a  dreary  smile.  "  It 
is  for  his  sake  most  that  I  want  to  die." 

"Cousin  Fair" — the  passionate  words  were  the 
more  thrilling  because  spoken  so  low — "  if  you  die 
now,  how  am  I  to  convince  him  that  you  are  not 
a  coward  ?  Yes,  I  say  the  word  because  I  don't 
believe  it.  But  he  don't  know  you  as  I  do — if  you 
die  now  he  never  will  ;  but  if  you  live,  if  you  are 
brave,  as  you  always  have  been — you  have,  I  say  ; 
you  shan't  interrupt  me  ! — then,  then,  he  will 
know  he  did  you  wrong,  and  be  happy  again. 
And  there  is  Unk'  Fair,  too,  who  is  so  petted  on 
you,  and   has  had  such    disappointment    already. 


EXPIATION,  125 

Cousin    Fair,  you    have    no  right  to  leave    them 
alone  and  broken  down  like  they  would  be  !  " 

He  only  nodded  toward  his  father,  muttering 
for  her  to  hush,  she  would  wake  him.  She  clasped 
her  hands  more  tightly,  trying  to  smother  in  her- 
self an  impetuous  something  that  was  making  her 
heart  beat  faster.  "  Look  a'  here,  Cousin  Fair,  I 
will  suppose  that  you  have  done  the  very  worst 
that  you  fear ;  and  I  am  going  to  say  to  you  what 
I  beheve  he  would — he  will— say  to  you,  for  I 
know  he  is  alive." 

Fairfax  caught  her  arm.  "If— if  he  were, 
Adele — what  makes  you  think  so?" 

Briefly  Adele  repeated  her  reasons  for  hope. 
**  Mollie,"  she  said,  ''  really  knows  nothing,  for 
she  became  so  terrified  when  she  thought  Parson 
Collins  was  killed  that  she  ran  fast  as  she  could 
into  the  swamp,  and  the  next  thing  she  knew  the 
mule  had  thrown  you  off  close  to  her." 

Fairfax  drew  a  long  breath.  ''If — if  he  isn't 
dead  there  is  some  hope  for  me.  But,  Adele,  my 
firing  that  pistol  isn't  all.  I  had  no  right,  what- 
ever those  devils  did  to  me,  to  betray  Collins  into 
their  hands.  It  seemed  to  me  I  had  a  right  to 
give  up  the  money.  I  knew  Uncle  Fair  would 
pay  it   twice  over  for  me  ;  but,  don't  you   see,  it 


126  EXPIATION. 

wasn't  a  question  of  money,  it  was  my  giving  up 
Collins.  I  knew  he  was  a  man  and  not  a — fancy, 
Adele,  I  haven't  the  courage  to  name  the  thing 

am. 

Adele  seemed  to  be  thinking ;  it  was  a  long 
minute  to  Fairfax  before  she  answered,  **  Yes, 
Fair,  you  had  no  right  to  give  in;  but  I  don't 
believe  you  would  if  you  hadn't  been  half  out  of 
your  head  with  the  pain  and  the  chill.  God  won't 
hold  you  guilty  for  that.  And  even  say  you  were 
guilty,  guilty  of  the  worst — well,  what  then? 
Does  repentance  mean  despair  or  expiation  ? 
*  Bring  forth  fruits,'  the  apostle  says.  God  will 
not  despise  a  broken  and  a  contrite  heart  :  but  if 
such  a  heart  doesn't  lead  us  to  do  something,  it 
isn't  contrite.  Do  you  think  that  there  is  any 
good  in  unhappiness  of  itself?  Unless  our  un- 
happiness  for  sin  makes  us  more  merciful  to  other 
people  when  they  do  wrong,  and  more  careful  not 
to  sin  again,  and  anxious  to  repair  the  wrong,  I 
don't  see  any  good  in  it — not  the  least  bit  on 
earth.  Fm  sure  unhappy  people,  who  ^.x^jtist  un- 
happy, are  mighty  disagreeable ;  they  don't  join 
in  anything,  they  don't  like  anything,  and  you 
feel  as  if  you  were  heartless  if  you  laugh  at  a  joke 
when  they're  'round,  or  enjoy  anything  you  eat." 


o 


EXPIATION.  127 

She  made  the  little  gesture  with  her  hands  which 
was  almost  the  only  thing  about  her  to  recall  to 
Fairfax  the  eager  and  reckless  little  romp  of  his 
boyhood.  But  her  soft  voice  never  rose  nor  sharp- 
ened, though  the  tears  of  earnestness  shone  in 
her  beautiful  eyes. 

^'  Fair,  please  try  to  understand  what  I  mean, 
I've  thought  so  Jiard  \N\\-dX  to  say  to  you  ;  it  looks 
like  I  couldn't  say  it  right,  in  the  way  to  convince 
you,  but  I  have  to  try.  You  think  there  isn't  any 
more  happiness  left  in  life  for  you  ;  I  think  surely 
there  is.  But  if  there  isn't,  there's  duty.  Not 
only  to  Unk'  Ralph,  Cousin  Fair  ;  I'm  only  a  girl 
and  I  don't  understand  much  about  politics,  but  I 
know  that  every  one,  man  or  woman,  owes  some- 
thing to  his  country.  Unk'  Fairfax  reckoned  we 
all  were  wrong  ;  he  said  he  couldn't  fight  for  the 
South  and  he  wouldn't  fight  against  her,  so  he 
stayed  in  Europe  ;  and  I  expect  you  thought  like 
him." 

"  Yes,"  said  Fairfax. 

*'  I  don't  ;  but  that  hasn't  anything  to  do  with 
it.  Now  I  know  as  well  as  you,  Cousin  Fair,  that 
we  are  beaten  in  Arkansas ;  but  now,  if  we  are 
beaten,  we  have  got  to  live.  There  is  the  land 
left  and  the  poor  people,  and  it's  our  own  coun- 


128  EXPIATION. 

try,  Cousin  Fair ;  you  haven't  any  right  to  desert 
it.  And  because  it  is  ruined  and  miserable,  that's 
the  more  reason  you  should  try  to  help.  If  you 
want  to  make  amends  to  Mr.  Collins,  to  Unk' 
Ralph — they  love  this  poor  country — stay  here 
and  help  them  try  to  save  it.  Oh,  you  know,  you 
know  how  Unk'  Ralph  has  struggled  to  improve 
this  place,  to  get  better  roads  and  better  houses 
and  some  way  civilize  the  people  ;  and  you  know 
how  Mr.  Collins  helped  him.  If  you  want  to 
make  amends — please,  Cousin  Fair,  excuse  the 
plain  way  I  talk — then  help  to  rid  the  country  of 
the  graybacks,  and  get  in  provisions,  and  keep 
peace  now,  and  the  rest  will  come  in  time.  That 
— that  will  be  expiation  ;  but  to  lie  here  and  die 
of  shame — if  you  do,  do  you  know  what  I  say  ? 
I  say.  Cousin  Fair,  you  weren't  a  coward,  but  you 
are  I 

"  I  say,  that  is  a  blast,  Adele,"  said  Fairfax,  but 
the  ghost  of  a  smile  crept  to  his  lips.  He  looked 
up  at  her  wistfully.  And  perhaps  for  a  moment 
there  flashed  over  him  a  perception  of  the  differ- 
ence in  his  mental  attitude  from  what  it  had  been 
so  short  a  time  ago.  He  had  felt  for  his  people 
the  half-compassionate  toleration  of  the  cosmop- 
olite for  the  provincial.     It  may  be  that  the  hawk 


EX  PI  A  TION.  1 29 

has  a  kindred  feeling  for  the  quail,  a  useful,  virtu- 
ous enough  bird,  but  with  no  breadth  of  experi- 
ence, no  distinction.  He  had  found  the  details  of 
Adele's  life,  as  depicted  in  her  letters,  petty  and 
uncouth  to  a  degree  ;  he  had  winced  over  his 
father's  lapses  in  etiquette  and  grammar,  over 
his  contented  rusticity,  over  Mrs.  Rutherford's 
preposterous  landscapes,  over  the  whole  feudal 
medley  of  magnificence  and  shabbiness  about  the 
place  ;  now  he,  the  admired  young  man  of  the 
world,  who  had  started  to  the  rescue  of  his 
father's  wrecked  fortunes  with  such  a  foolhardy 
confidence,  had  failed  ignominiously.  He  lacked 
even  those  primitive,  basic  virtues  on  which  man- 
hood depends,  which  knit  society  together— cour- 
age and  fidelity.  Why,  the  very  poor  whites,  the 
renters  on  his  father's  plantation,  the  ragged  farm- 
ers in  the  hills  who  knew  nothing  of  the  refine- 
ment of  the  senses,  were  meji  at  least,  brave  and 
loyal,  and  had  the  right  to  despise  him.  He  who 
should  have  been  the  honor  of  his  father's  house 
was  its  everlasting  reproach. 

*It  was  the  boy's  nature  to  shrink  from  suffer- 
ing ;  he  did  not  know  how  to  be  unhappy  ;  and 
his  soul  clung  to  Adele's  strong  tenderness  with 
its  old  childish  abandon.    What  would  have  jarred 


1 30  EXP  I  A  TION. 

upon  him  once  he  did  not  even  see  ;  he  went  back 
to  the  love  of  his  childhood,  but  with  a  humility 
which  he  never  had  known  before.  Her  words 
opened  a  window  of  hope  to  his  darkness  ;  and 
in  his  prostration  of  remorse  the  denial,  the  self- 
mortification,  the  hardship  and  dangers  of  the 
expiation  that  she  proffered  him,  were  its  poig- 
nant attraction.  He  experienced  something  of 
the  dependence  on  pain  of  the  mediaeval  saint 
who  pressed  the  spiked  crucifix  into  his  flesh.  As 
not  infrequently  happens,  the  part  of  Adele's  lit- 
tle sermon  which  she  herself  felt  most  fervently 
may  be  said  to  have  passed  clean  over  Fairfax's 
head,  and  he  was  affected  by  an  incidental  and 
extraneous  quality  of  thought. 

But  affected  he  was ;  dragged  out  of  his  apathy, 
to  stand  morally  on  his  feet — a  man,  if  a  ruined 
and  desperate  one. 

After  a  long  pause  he  spoke : 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  have  such  things  as 
clothes  left  in  the  store." 

'*  We  have  mostly  shelves  in  the  store,"  said 
Adele,  hiding  a  thrill  of  hope  under  a  light 
speech  ;  "  but  I  have  been  altering  some  of  Unk' 
Ralph's  clothes,  and  there's  a  pair  of  his  boots, 
but  " — dubiously — ''  they  are  pretty  old." 


EXP  I  A  TION,  1 3 1 

*     Another  long  pause ;  the  inventory  of  clothes 
did  not  seem  to  rouse  Fair. 

She  waited  ;  a  Httle  wind  fluttered  the  leaves  of 
the  "  Essays,"  open  on  the  floor.  A  line  in  italics, 
marked  below  in  ink,  stared  out  at  her,  hatefully 
plain  :  **  /  have^  therefore^  lived  a  day  too  long !  " 
The  Colonel's  profile,  laid  back  on  the  chair,  had 
lost  its  fresh  coloring,  the  eyes  were  sunken,  there 
were  new  furrows  cut  in  the  forehead. 

Fair's  eyes  followed  hers  from  the  book  to  the 
sleeping  face. 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  quietly,  ''  he  thinks  so  too. 
I  have  lived  a  day  too  long.  But  I  am  going  to 
try  again,  Adele."  Inwardly  he  added,  ^'*  I  can't 
whine  to  her,  but  maybe  I  shall  be  lucky  enough 
to  get  killed  by  the  graybacks,  and  then  the  poor 
old  governor  will  forgive  me  and  be  comforted." 

Adele  had  only  said,  *'  Thank  you,  Cousin 
Fair,"  in  a  tremulous  voice.  He  stole  another 
look  at  her  ;  he  felt  so  inexpressibly  weak  and 
wretched,  worn  out  by  his  own  passion,  and  she 
— she  looked  so  gentle,  yet,  with  the  light  in 
her  eye,  and  the  flush  that  was  come  to  her 
cheek,  and  the  erect,  supple  young  figure,  how 
strong ! 

"  Adele,"   he  whispered,   flushing   to    his    hair, 


132  EXPIATION. 

*'  do  you — do  you  despise  me  too  much  to  kiss 
me  once  ?  " 

She  bent  her  lovely  neck  and  kissed  his  cheek, 
softly  and  very  tenderly,  as  his  sister  might. 

Then  she  rose  and  slipped  out  of  the  room. 
He  imagined  when  he  saw  her  again  that  there 
were  traces  of  tears  on  her  cheeks ;  but  he  had 
not  the  courage  to  ask  her  anything. 


o 


VII. 

IT  is  difficult  for  any  one  not  a  Southerner  to 
picture  adequately  the  isolation  of  an  Arkan- 
sas plantation  during  the  last  year  of  the  war. 
Before  the  war  Montaigne  was  a  post-office,  and 
three  times  a  week  the  mail  came.  There  were 
half  a  dozen  plantations  or  wee  settlements  within 
riding  distance.  Four  times  a  week,  going  or 
coming,  the  steamboat  dropped  its  gangplank  at 
the  landing  below  the  mill,  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a  prodigious  screaming  of  whistles,  ringing  of 
bells,  hurly-burly  of  men,  and  an  opulence  of 
profanity. 

Of  a  Saturday  one  might  often  see  as  many 
as  twenty  horses  tied  to  the  hitching-bar  under 
the  great  willow-oak,  before  the  store.  The  "  big 
house  "  could  entertain  a  dozen  guests  without 
pinching. 

Strangers,  whatever  their  degree,  met  a  wel- 
come of  mediaeval  freedom.  Horses,  slaves,  pro- 
visions abounded.  There  was  a  saying  that  any 
honest   man   might   have   a   beeve   or  a  pig  from 


1 34  EXP  I  A  TION. 

Colonel  Rutherford,  for  the  asking.  Life  on  a 
plantation  before  the  war,  indeed,  was  a  mediaeval 
idyl. 

We  all  know  the  conclusion  of  the  idyl.  Enter 
grim-visaged  War  with  his  visor  down.  There  is  a 
woful  end  to  all  the  piping  and  dancing.  The  gay 
cavaliers  ride  away  to  battle-fields  where  all  shall 
be  lost  save  honor.  The  laughing  dames  fight  a 
harder  battle  at  home,  in  their  black  gowns,  starv- 
ing and  contriving  and  toiling  for  their  doomed 
cause  and  their  unreturning  knights. 

Inevitably  the  war  stopped  all  the  pleasant, 
kindly  interchange  of  neighborhood  courtesies 
and  visits.  The  cumbersome  but,  withal,  pliable 
mechanism  of  society  was  crushed  to  atoms.  The 
store-shelves  emptied  themselves,  and  thereafter 
stood  yawning  in  a  way  to  make  a  Northern  shop- 
keeper weep.  Rarely  did  a  rider  venture  across 
**  the  creek."  When  visitors  did  come,  they  rode 
armed  to  the  teeth  ;  the  very  women  had  revolv- 
ers stowed  somewhere  about  their  rusty  cotton 
riding-skirts.  Bands  of  pillagers  wasted  the  coun- 
try, and  any  man  might  be  a  hidden  ally  of  the 
graybacks  ;  hence  distrust,  the  base-born  brother 
of  fear,  harassed  all  honest  men  worse  than  fear 
itself. 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION.  1  3  5 

As  the  brief,  chill  November  sunshine  grew 
briefer  and  chillier,  and  the  cold  mud  of  the 
swamps  deepened  with  frost  and  rain,  weeks 
would  pass,  perhaps,  without  a  strange  face  being 
seen  on  the  plantation.  Walled  in  by  its  vast  and 
sombre  forests,  Montaigne  lay  on  the  little  river, 
as  lonely  as  a  Russian  steppe.  Such  isolation  could 
not  but  be  an  obstacle  to  discovering  any  trace 
of  Parson  Collins.  There  were  no  neighbors  to 
bring  in  a  clew.  Even  supposing  any  one  had 
found  a  clew,  had  seen  the  dead  man  alive  and 
well,  he  was  not  likely  to  risk  his  horse,  or,  possi- 
bly, his  life,  carrying  his  news  to  Montaigne.  The 
Colonel's  parties  scoured  the  country  round  the 
Parson's  farm  in  vain.  For  any  sign  left  behind, 
he  might  have  sunk  through  the  earth. 

Meanwhile  the  loneliness  and  monotony  of  the 
life  affected  Fair  in  the  worst  way.  His  thoughts 
sagged  forever  on  one  theme,  like  a  gate  on  a 
broken  hinge.  The  canker-fret  of  disgrace  was 
eating  his  heart.  He  could  not  believe,  in  spite 
of  Adele's  assurances,  that  his  father's  precaution 
in  sending  Mollie  Collins  away  had  been  success- 
ful, and  that  all  the  plantation  did  not  consider 
him  a  craven  murderer. 

''As  I  am,"  thought    Fair.     '^  Even  if  Adele  is 


136 


EX  PI  A  TION. 


right  and  I  didn't  pull  the  trigger,  I  got  the   poor 
old  man  into  the  hole." 

The.very  clothes  which   he  was  obliged  to  wear 

were  like  a  convict's  suit  to  him. 

He  had  a  young 
Englishman's  re- 
spect for  himself 
physically  ;  a  n  d 
here  he  was, 
washing  with  a 
nasty  mess  called 
soft-soap,  and 
skulking  about 
the  plantation 
with  his  toes  out 
of  his  boots, 
patches  on  his 
knees,  and  a  bat- 
tered old  hat  so 
large  that  he 
must  needs  tie  it 
under  his  chin.  He  laughed  ai:  the  grotesque 
figure  he  cut  ;  but  no  lover  chooses  to  cut  a  gro- 
tesque figure  before  his  mistress,  and  his  laugh 
hurt.  As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  crawl  he  occu- 
pied   himself   with    incessant    projects    of    forays 


EXPIATION.  137 

against  the  guerillas,  in  which  his  best  hope  was 
to  get  killed — of  course,  after  performing  prodi- 
gies of  valor. 

No  sooner  was  he  able  to  crawl  down-stairs  than 
he  proposed  to  the  Colonel  that  he  go  to  Mem- 
phis and  buy  supplies  for  the  store.  He  could  ride 
to  Mrs.  Crowder's,  and  from  there  to  the  Federal 
lines  was  but  a  short  distance.  The  Colonel  had 
listened  as  usual,  with  his  eyes  everywhere  except 
on  Fair.  ''  I  don't  guess  you  better,"  he  said  ; 
"you  ain't  stout  enough."  The  words  were  kind, 
but  Fair  felt  choked.  "  He  won't  trust  me,"  he 
said  to  Adele  ;  ''  well,  why  should  he  ?  I  was  a 
fool  to  ask."  It  was  not  often  that  he  spoke  so 
freely,  even  to  Adele.  Yet  he  depended  on  her, 
he  felt  her  sympathy,  and,  what  was  a  thousand 
times  more  bracing,  her  belief  in  him,  every  hour 
of  the  day. 

It  showed  the  real  nobility  of  Fair's  nature  that, 
unable  at  first  to  gratify  his  longing  for  action, 
wherein,  he  conceived,  lay  his  only  chance  of  re- 
demption, he  should  try  in  every  humble  way  to 
be  useful.  There  was  nothing  glorious  in  tuning 
the  piano,  or  mending  chairs  (in  a  very  bungling 
fashion,  to  the  bargain),  or  painting  the  ceiling  of 
Mrs.    Rutherford's   sitting-room,   or   riding  about 


138  EXPIATION, 

the  plantation  to  report  the  condition  of  fences  ; 
yet  it  took  more  resolution  to  push  away  his  black 
moods  and  address  himself  to  such  trivial  tasks 
than  has  carried  many  a  man  into  battle. 

An  unexpected  result  of  these  efforts  was  the 
conquest  of  Mrs.  Rutherford.  She  could  not 
think  hard  long  of  such  an  amiable  and  ingenious 
young  man,  who  never  found  fault  with  his  meals. 
The  piano  softened  her  ;  and  his  gratitude  over 
the  two  shirts  which  she  made  for  him  convinced 
her  entirely  that  he  never  could  have  shot  Parson 
Collins.  "  And  how  Ralph  Rutherford  can  go  on 
the  way  he  does  to  that  poor  boy,"  she  said  to 
Adele,  once  a  day  at  least,  "  I  can't  make  out.  I 
declare  it's  wicked.     It  is  so." 

The  relations  between  father  and  son  had  grown 
no  more  familiar.  When  the  Colonel  was  obliged 
to  address  Fair,  he  used  a  sort  of  studied  gentle- 
ness ;  but  he  never  spoke  to  his  son  of  his  own 
accord.  Three  times  a  day  they  met  at  the  table, 
and  talked  to  Mrs.  Rutherford  and  Adele.  On 
Fairfax's  part  the  restraint  came  from  an  intolera- 
ble sense  of  self-abasement.  "  Ecraser  rinfdvie,'' 
he  would  think,  bitterly.  His  father's  good  opin- 
ion had  grown  into  a  prize,  now  that  he  judged  it 
lost  forever.     He  could  see,  now.  the  heroic  quali- 


EXP  I  A  TION.  1 39 

ties  of  the  shabby  old  planter,  his  strong  will,  his 
clear  head,  his  stainless  honor,  his  noble  patience. 
On  the  Colonel's  part  the  feeling  was  more  com- 
plex. Uncouth,  and  even  vulgar,  as  some  aspects 
of  his  life  ma)'  appear  to  a  Northerner,  he  had  all 
the  patrician  instincts.  ^'  Born  and  raised  a  gen- 
tleman," is  the  Southern  title  of  nobility  ;  and  the 
Rutherfords  had  been  gentlemen  for  centuries. 
Fair's  flinching  in  the  face  of  danger  and  his  be- 
trayal of  Collins  were  unpardonable  sins,  accord- 
ing to  his  father's  code.  No  Rutherford  ever 
had  been  a  coward  ;  no  Rutherford  ever  could 
have  been  a  traitor.  Had  Fair  been  killed  by  the 
graybacks,  bravely  resisting  to  the  last,  the  blow 
would  have  broken  his  father's  heart,  but  the 
stanch  old  man  would  have  exulted  in  his  desola- 
tion because  his  son  had  been  strong  and  quit  him 
like  a  man.  Fair,  his  best-beloved  child,  would 
have  been  dead,  but  not  lost.  Now,  not  being 
dead,  he  was  lost.  Ralph  Rutherford  could  never 
hold  up  his  head  again.  He  was  like  a  man  struck 
a  mortal  blow,  who  staggers  a  few  paces,  not 
knowing  what  he  does.  To  Mrs.  Rutherford  it 
seemed  that  Fair  was  dead  to  his  father ;  but 
Adele,  whose  eyes  were  keener,  said,  "  Then, 
mamma,    why    does    he    always    watch    Fair   and 


I40  EXPIATION. 

follow  him   wherever  he    goes?"  and   the   elder 
woman  had  no  answer. 

She  soon  perceived  that  the  Colonel  shunned 
every  one.  He  said — with  his  eyes  on  his  boots 
— that  he  should  disturb  her  rest,  he  had  such 
uneasy  nights ;  and  he  went  off  to  a  bare  room  of 
his  own.  Often  and  often  did  his  wife  lie  awake 
and  listen,  weeping,  to  his  heavy,  uncertain  tread. 

''And  I  know  he'll  make  his  leg  bad  again, 
walking  on  it  so  reckless ! "  she  would  reflect, 
wretchedly ;  "  but  it's  no  use  on  earth  me  saying 
a  word  !  " 

But  it  was  hard  for  her,  who  had  helped  him  to 
bear  his  other  sorrows,  to  be  shut  out  of  this 
cruellest  of  all. 

Were  it  any  consolation  (and  women  being  what 
they  are,  very  possibly  it  was),  she  might  assure 
herself  that  no  one  else  stood  any  nearer  to  him. 
He  never  so  much  as  looked  a  negro  in  the  face, 
if  he  could  help  it  ;  the  routine  of  the  plantation 
seemed  hateful  to  him  ;  while  he,  the  sweetest- 
tempered  of  men,  was  turned  moody  and  irritable, 
fretted  at  trifles,  and  flew  into  a  passion  over  the 
slightest  contradiction.  Frequently,  however  (and 
this  was  the  more  distressing  to  his  wife),  he 
would  check  his  hasty  speech  with  a  painful  sort 


o 


EXPIATION,  141 

of  humility.  It  was  as  if  he  should  say:  ''  I  am  a 
ruined,  disgraced  old  man  ;  what  right  have  I  to 
be  angry  at  anybody  ?  " 

The  poor  lady  actually  welcomed  his  plans  for 
hunting  down  Dick  Barnabas,  since  in  them,  at 
least,  he  showed  a  feverish  interest. 

Bud  Fowler  really  started  the  first  expedition. 
After  the  Colonel  refused  Fair  permission  to  ride 
to  Crowder's,  Bud,  who  had  brought  his  family  to 
the  plantation,  quietly  rode  over  there  without 
mentioning  his  intentions. 

It    was    as   he    suspected ;     Mrs.    Crowder   had 

written  the   note.     Not    half   an   hour  after   Jim 

Fowler  left  the  tavern  Betty  Ward  had  galloped 

back,  and  they  saw  smears  of  blood  on  her  bridle. 

''The    minnit   I  seen    that,"  said    worthy    Mrs. 

Crowder,  ''  I  putt  it  up  suthin'  had  happened  to 

Jim.     So  Tobe  and  me  jes'  taken  the  hoss  back, 

an'  he  was  layin'  on  the  grass.     Mymy  !  mymy ! 

when  I  seen  him  I  sot  right  daown  an'  bellered,  I 

felt    so  bad.      I  hadn't  no  more  wits   in  me  iz  a 

fittified  sheep.     But  says  Tobe,  '  Maw,  whar's  the 

money  ?  '     An'  says  I  to  myself,  '  Willy  Crowder, 

if  Jim  kep'  that  ar  money,  ye  got  t'  git  it  back ! ' 

So  we  done  accordin'.     We  uns  histed  you'  paw 

on  the  hoss,  best  we  cud  make  out,  and  Tobe  writ 


142  EXP  I  A  TION. 

the  note ;  an'  we  p'inted  her  haid  an'  sent  her 
ayfter  Mist'  Rutherford.  Looked  Hke  the  critter 
knowed,  she  went  off  so  slick." 

Mrs.  Crowder  felt  sure  that  Dick  had  a  spy  in 
Jacksonport,  and  that  he  knew  of  the  money's 
being  sent.  He  knew  about  young  Rutherford's 
coming,  also  ;  but  she  could  not  decide  whether 
he  supposed  that  Jim  was  to  carry  the  money. 

Bud's  own  theory  was  to  the  effect  that  Dick 
was  not  sure,  and  that  therefore  he  had  stationed 
assassins  along  the  road  to  kill  both. 

"  That  a  way  he  'lowed  t'  make  the  wiggle,  no 
matter  Jww  the  cat  jumped,"  said  Bud  ;  "  now, 
question  is,  7^/^^  writes  them  letters?  But  more 
of  a  question  are,  Whufs  in  'em  ?  Mis'  Crowder, 
we  got  t'  fine  aout.  An'  it's  easy.  Jes'  peek  in 
the  letters." 

Thanks  to  the  unscrupulous  child  who  put  the 
notion  into  her  head,  Mrs.  Crowder,  from  that 
day  forth,  opened  every  letter  that  came  to  her 
office,  lest  by  any  chance  she  should  miss  one 
for  Dick's  confederate.  I  believe  she  had  the 
grace  to  keep  her  tampering  with  the  mails  to 
herself  ;  but  it  does  not  appear  that  she  ever  felt 
any  compunction.  Like  most  women,  she  was  a 
bit  of  a  Jesuit,  and  held  that  the  end  must  look 


EXP  I  A  TION,  143 

out  for  the  means.  I  even  fear  that  she  was 
interested  in  the  other  letters. 

Owing  to  her  information,  Colonel  Rutherford 
presently  was  able  to  foil  an  attack  of  the  gray- 
backs  on  a  "  cross-roads  "  store.  A  little  force  of 
old  soldiers  was  collected,  authority  was  easily  ob- 
tained from  the  Federal  general  in  command  of 
the  district,  and  finally  they  were  mounted,  armed, 
and  mustered  before  the  house.  The  Colonel 
limped  out  and  climbed  into  the  saddle.  Fair 
came  out  of  the  house  to  help  him.  "  I  can  make 
out,"  said  the  Colonel,  not  lifting  his  eyes  from 
the  horse's  mane.  But  Fair  did  not  move  away. 
He  was  white  like  a  piece  of  chalk,  Unk'  Nels 
told  Hizzie. 

''  May  I  go  with  you,  sir  ?  "  said  he. 

The  Colonel  would  not  look  at  him. 

"  You  are  too  sick,"  he  answered,  in  a  gruff  way. 

"  I  am  quite  well  again,  sir." 

"  You  ain't  got  nothing  to  ride." 

"  There's  Laughing  Johnny." 

Laughing  Johnny  was  a  mule. 

**  Did  you  know  Betty  Ward  came  back  last 
night  ? — Lord  knows  from  where  ;  you  better  take 
herT 

"Thank  you,  sir." 


144  EXPIATION. 

No  more  words  were  exchanged,  nor  did  the 
Colonel  pay  his  son  further  attention,  but  when 
the  troop  clattered  down  the  avenue,  Fairfax,  on 
Betty  Ward,  rode  in  the  front  rank. 

They  overtook  the  guerillas  at  the  cross-roads 
store,  which  they  were  looting.  There  was  a 
short,  sharp  combat  before  the  outlaws  broke  and 
ran.  Colonel  Rutherford's  men  were  the  better 
mounted,  and  Fairfax's  horse  outstripped  the 
others.  During  the  pursuit,  his  spirits  almost  rose 
to  their  old  boyish  level.  With  actual  gayety  he 
plunged  in  among  the  bullets.  When  the  leader 
of  the  graybacks  (it  was  not  Dick)  swung  around 
in  his  saddle  to  fire  at  him,  Fairfax  saw  him  roll 
off,  under  his  return  fire,  with  a  throb  of  stern 
exultation.  But  afterward,  it  was  different.  Five 
haggard,  muddy,  scared-looking  men,  some  of 
them  wounded,  bare-headed,  and  their  hands  tied 
behind  their  backs,  forced  into  a  line  to  look  into 
the  muzzles  of  levelled  guns  and  to  hear  the  griz- 
zled lieutenant's  command  :  "  Dress  up  now  and 
stand  steady,  unless  you  all  would  like  better 
to  swing  !  " — there  was  no  sight  to  brace  a  man's 
anger  or  fire  his  courage  ! 

Fairfax  shut  his  eyes  because  he  was  ashamed 
to  turn  his  head. 


bi) 


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O 


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3 


146  EXPIATION. 

"  One  moment,  lieutenant,"  said  Colonel  Ruth- 
erford. "  Mr.  Rutherford  !  "  Fairfax  started  like  a 
girl,  and  then  cursed  himself  for  his  nervousness, 
as  he  saluted. 

"  Mr.  Rutherford,  you  will  take  three  men  and 
ride  as  fast  as  possible  to  Montaigne  with  the 
news.  Tell  them  to  get  a  good  supper  ready  for 
us  immediately." 

Fairfax  saluted  again,  took  his  men,  and  gal- 
loped away.  The  group  in  the  woods  was  left 
behind,  the  victors  with  their  prospect  of  a  good 
supper,  the  doomed  vanquished  men  casting  their 
last  glances  at  the  sun. 

In  a  moment  a  volley  of  musketry  crashed 
behind  them.  All  they  could  see  (for  every  man 
turned  in  his  saddle)  was  a  little  ragged  cloud  of 
smoke  staining  the  sky. 

^'  I  seen  Jim  Fowler's  coat  on  one  ur  'em,"  one 
man  said. 

**  Dessay,"  said  the  other;  ''  wall,  they  got  thar 
desarvin's.  Have  a  pull,  sir?"  producing  a  whis- 
key-bottle and  addressing  Fairfax.  ''  You  does 
look  p'int-blank  gashly.  'Tain't  no  joke  seein' 
them  tricks,  fust  time  ;  but,  laws  !  ye'll  git  over 
hit.     They're  a  bloody  gang  er  thieves." 

"  Thanks,  no,"  said  Fairfax. 


EXPIATION.  147 

"You'  paw's  health,  then" — the  flask  went  to 
the  speaker's  mouth,  as  he  winked  pleasantly  over 
Fairfax's  back  at  his  comrade. 

Fair  rode  on,  raging  at  himself.  His  father 
would  despise  him  for  flinching  ;  even  these  fel- 
lows had  noticed  it.  "  And  I  needn't  call  it 
humanity,"  he  thought,  angrily.  '*  I  knew  they 
richly  deserved  hanging.  If  somebody  had  told 
me  they  were  to  be  hung,  supposing  that  I  were 
somewhere  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  I  dare  say  I 
shouldn't  have  cared  a  pin.  It  was  simply  my 
cursed  cowardice  ;  I  hadn't  the  nerve  to  look  at 
them  being  killed.  No  doubt  he  was  afraid  I 
should  go  to  pieces  entirely  and  make  a  fool  of 
myself,  so  he  sent  me  away.  Might  as  well  never 
have  come,  for  any  use  I  have  been." 

Thus  the  poor  lad  mentally  scourged  himself  all 
the  way  home. 

But  that  night,  for  the  first  time,  Colonel 
Rutherford  looked  at  him  when  he  asked  a  ques- 
tion ;  and  the  next  morning  at  breakfast  he  said  : 

"  Say,  Fairfax,  when  are  you  'lowing  to  get  off 
on  that  foraging  party  of  yours — stock  for  the 
store,  you  know  ?  " 

Fairfax  brightened  up.  '*  I  am  at  your  service 
any  time,  sir,"  said  he. 


VIII. 

FAIRFAX  did  go.  More  than  that,  he 
plucked  up  courage  to  propose  to  his  father 
a  plan  for  entrapping  the  graybacks  *'  in  a  flock," 
as  the  Colonel  phrased  it,  "  instead  of  hunting 
them  down  in  coveys." 

His  idea  was  to  use  Dick's  spy  for  Dick's  own 
undoing,  to  buy  his  provisions,  load  a  boat,  secure 
a  guard  of  Federal  soldiers,  and  let  all  his  plans 
leak  out  in  time  for  Dick  to  use  them.  A  boat 
loaded  with  provisions  (including  quinine,  tobacco, 
and  whiskey),  with  arms,  ammunition,  saddles, 
clothes,  and  the  like,  as  well  as  a  store  of  green- 
backs in  small  bills,  was  a  treasure-ship  to  tempt 
any  graybacks.  The  guard  of  soldiers  would 
insure  bringing  out  the  full  strength  of  Dick's 
band.  Let  them  once  attack  the  boat.  Colonel 
Rutherford  could  raise  enough  of  a  force  to  de- 
scend on  the  fight  and  capture  most  of  the  gray- 
backs. Of  course,  his  men  were  to  be  gathered 
with  great  secrecy,  in  order  that  Dick  might  sup- 
pose  that   his  only   foe   was   on    the  boat.      The 


EXPIATION.  149 

Colonel  listened  in  silence  to  Fair's  explanations, 
and  so  grimly  that  Fair  gave  his  hopes  up  for 
lost ;  but  when  he  made  an  end,  confused  and 
reddening,  his  father  said  :  "  Maybe  we  could 
make  out  ;  FU  cipher  it  out  a  little  to  myself 
and  tell  you  my  notion  later."  He  got  up  (rather 
stiffly,  as  he  always  moved  nowadays),  took  the 
cane  that  Fair  handed  him,  and,  presently,  was 
walking  among  the  peach-trees  in  the  orchard. 
When  he  returned  he  told  Fair,  curtly  enough, 
that  he  had  decided  to  "■  risk  it." 

The  arrangements  were  quickly  made.  Fair  was 
to  ride  to  the  Federal  lines,  and  thence  get  as 
quickly  as  possible  to  Memphis.  Half  a  dozen 
men  would  ride  with  him  as  far  as  Mrs.  Crowder's, 
where  he  was  to  meet  a  company  of  Federal  sol- 
diers marching  south.  His  time  of  departure  was 
arranged  to  correspond  with  their  arrival. 

The  morning  before  he  started  Aunt  Hizzie  ran 
into  the  library.  For  Aunt  Hizzie  to  run  was  an 
unprecedented  event.  She  said  herself  that  ''  she 
hadn't  de  figger  fo'  runnin',  bress  de  Lawd  !  an' 
she  didn't  'low  t'  traipse  all  over  creation.  Ef 
folkses  didn't  want  tuh  come  when  dey  ben 
called,  dey  jes'  cud  stay  'way  !  "  Consequently 
her  habit  was  to  stand  still,  wherever  she  might 


I  50  EXP  I  A  TION. 

happen  to  be,  and  cry  aloud  for  whomsoever  she 
desired  to  see,  equably  regardless  of  the  where- 
about of  the  person  addressed.  Mrs.  Rutherford 
declared  that  Aunt  Hizzie  used  to  call  on  the 
Colonel  when  he  was  away  to  the  wars.  Yet 
now,  behold  Aunt  Hizzie  running,  crying,  as  she 
runs  :  ''  Miss  Delia  !  Miss  Delia  !  It's  Slick  Mose  ! 
He  done  come.  He  know  suthin'  'baout  Passon 
Collins,  fo'  sho'  !  " 

Adele  hurried  out  of  the  room.  She  had  sent 
Slick  Mose  on  one  of  his  quests  for  the  minister, 
three  weeks  ago  ;  and  he  had  not  returned.  Fair 
and  Colonel  Rutherford  were  left  together.  The 
Colonel  jumped  up  and  restlessly  paced  the  floor; 
but  Fair  sat  like  a  statue  at  the  window.  His 
only  change  of  attitude  was  to  drop  the  sword 
which  he  was  cleaning,  lay  both  his  elbows  on  the 
window-sill,  and  look  out  at  the  leafless  branches 
swaying  in  the  wind. 

"  Delia  keeps  Mose  on  the  path,  don't  she  ?  " 
said  the  Colonel,  yet  he  said  it  so  much  more 
like  a  man  talking  to  himself  than  addressing 
another  that  Fair  made  no  reply.  **  She  sets  a 
heap  by  his  notions  in  things.  Well,  there's  no 
telling  'bout  these  half-witted  creatures.  And 
more  people  are  half-witted  than  is  suspected.     I 


EXP] A  TION.  I  5  I 

reckon  we  don't  any  of  us  rightly  know  when  we 
have  committed  a  great  folly  till  the  consequences 
come  projicking  round  to  kick  us.  It  is  like  Mon- 
taigne says,  somewhere  :  '  The  justest  dividend 
nature  has  given  us  of  her  favors  is  that  of  sense ; 
for  there  is  no  one  that  ain't  satisfied  with  his 
share.'  No  doubt  Slick  Mose  thinks  he's  a 
mighty  scheemy  feller.  I've  made  as  bad  breaks 
as  Mose,  I  reckon.  Maybe  I  made  one  'bout  you, 
Fairfax " 

But  Fairfax  was  never  to  hear  the  end  of  that 
sentence ;  Adele's  swift  footsteps  sounded  in 
the  hall,  she  came  in  with  an  eager,  agitated 
manner,  and  flung  her  arms  about  the  Colonel's 
neck. 

*'  I  told  you  he  was  alive,  and  he  is  alive  !  "  she 
cried. 

*'  Brother  Collins  ?  "  said  the  Colonel.  ''  My 
Lord  !  "     He  sat  down,  looking  very  pale. 

'^  You  know  you  can't  make  very  much  out  of 
Mose,"  said  Adele,  "  but  he  declares  and  repeats 
that  he  has  seen  him,  been  with  him.  It  must 
have  been  going  from  him  that  he  got  shot.  Oh, 
Uncle  Ralph,  those  cowards  shot  the  poor  fellow 
— in  the  leg  !  It  must  have  been  two  weeks  ago  ; 
the    wound    is    almost    healed.      That's   why   he 


152  EXPIATION. 

stayed  so  long.  He  went  to  his  mother — the 
poor  crazy  fellow  knew  enough  to  do  that." 

"  We  have  only  Slick  Mose's  word  for  it,"  said 
Fair. 

Adele  w?,s  quite  composed  again.  "  Vd  be  sat- 
isfied with  that,"  said  she,  "  but  I  don't  reckon 
you  all  will.  There  is  one  thing  else  ;  some  darky 
told  Aunt  Hizzie  that  there  was  a  sick  man  at 
Aunt  Tennie  Marlow's  cabin.  Mose  talked  about 
Aunt  Tennie,  too  ;  he  is  so  disconnected  it  is 
hard  to  understand  ;  but  I  am  sure  he  said  she 
was  nursing  Mr.  Collins." 

'*  I'll  ride  over  to-morrow  and  see,"  the  Colonel 
said. 

Fairfax  sprang  to  his  feet  like  one  sitting  on 
hot  coals ;  he  took  a  step  toward  his  father, 
whose  face  changed  to  meet  the  white  eagerness 
in  the  son's  ;  then,  without  speaking  a  word,  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  stood  staring  out  of  the 
window  again,  too  absorbed  in  his  own  tumult  of 
soul  to  be  conscious  how  the  elder  man's  burning 
eyes  followed  every  motion.  Neither  did  he  look 
up  when  he  spoke. 

"  Could  you  send  me  a  letter  to  Memphis,  sir, 
telling  what  you  have  found  out  ?  " 

The   Colonel    straightened    himself,   drawing   a 


o 


EXPIATION.  153 

deep  breath.  "  I'll  let  you  know,"  said  he.  He 
glanced  from  Fairfax's  slim  figure,  the  curly 
brown  head  and  the  oval  of  one  smooth  cheek, 
which  was  all  that  he  could  see,  up  to  Fairfax's 
mother's  face  smiling  on  the  wall. 

Fairfax  held  his  head,  Adele  thought,  like  that 
painted  lady.  Did  some  arrow  out  of  the  past, 
when  the  son  who  had  disgraced  him  was  only 
his  own  dear  little  baby,  fly  straight  to  the  proud, 
tender  old  heart  ?  Adele  saw  him  wince  and  a 
quiver  run  across  his  mouth  before  he  limped 
stiffly,  and  with  his  head  on  his  breast,  out  of  the 
room  to  the  garden,  and  so  back  to  the  orchard. 

"  Oh,  Fair,"  said  Adele,  "  I  am  so  sorry.  Shan't 
I  beg  Uncle  Ralph  to  let  you  stay  one  day 
longer  ? ' 

*'  Not  one  hour,  Adele,"  Fair  answered,  forcing 
a  smile.      "  A  pretty  soldier  you  think  me." 

"You  could  ride  at  night,"  persisted  Adele, 
**  and  catch  the  Yankees  if  they  had  left " 

""  And  if  I  didn't  catch  them  ?  No,  the  gover- 
nor is  right.  He  wouldn't  want  me  to  run  any 
risk  of  failing,  and  I  shan't.  Should  yoii  want 
me  to,  Adele  ?" 

"  No,  Cousin  Fair,"  said  she. 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  said  Fair,  and  went  away; 


I  54  EXP  I  A  TION. 

but  his  heart  was  sitting  more  lightly  in  his  breast 
than  it  had  for  many  a  day,  because  of  the  look 
in  her  soft  eyes.  Before  he  was  half-way  to  the 
quarters  he  had  returned  in  triumph  from  his  ex- 
pedition, received  a  glorious  wound  somewhere 
(he  was  not  particular  at  all  where),  beheld  Parson 
Collins,  been  assured  by  him  of  forgiveness,  built 
the  worthy  man  a  church,  ridden  about  in  a 
decent  suit  of  clothes,  and  was  offering  himself  to 
Adele  with  amazing  eloquence. 

"  What  an  ass  I  am,  to  be  sure  !  "  cried  he  to 
himself ;  "  bad  as  the  fellow  father  tells  about, 
who  offered  a  nigger  a  dime  to  kick  him  because 
he  was  such  a  fool ;  he  was  sure  it  must  be  catch- 
ing, and  he  didn't  want  to  give  it  to  any  white 
man  ! 

But  Fair's  exhilaration  did  not  last.  While  he 
was  jeering  at  himself  for  dallying  with  such  day- 
dreams, dismissing  them,  yet  summoning  them 
again  (all  the  time  going  at  a  great  pace  through 
the  quarters),  he  was  accosted  by  Bud  Fowler. 

''  Say,  M'ist'  Rutherford  !  " 

"  Well  ?  "  Fairfax  stopped  to  listen.  Bud,  who 
was  wearing  a  pair  of  Confederate  gray  trousers, 
formerly  his  father's,  and  adapted  to  his  shorter 
legs   by  the  simple    device    of   cutting   them  off 


EXPIATION.  155 

at  the  bottom,  stretched  his  finger-tips  down  to 
the  pockets,  hitched  the  pockets  up  into  his 
chitch  (they  were  about  level  with  his  knees), 
and,  finally,  produced  a  letter  from  the  depths. 
It  was  in  an  old,  yellow  envelope,  written  on  a 
page  torn  from  a  ledger,  and  purported  to  be 
from  one  Tennie  Marlow  to  Mrs.  Crowder,  telling 
the  latter  that  she  (Tennie)  could  not  come  to 
help  her  cook  because  she  was  *'waitin'on  Mr. 
Barnabas'  sprained  leader*  in  his  lef  lag." 

Aunt  Tennie  Marlow  was  well  enough  known 
to  Fair.  She  was  an  old  and  very  black  negress 
who  enjoyed  a  great  name  as  a  bone-setter,  knew 
"  a  heap  'baout  beastis,"  ushered  all  the  babies  of 
the  neighborhood  into  the  world,  and  on  the 
strength  of  these  gifts  and  of  living  alone  was 
suspected  to  be  a  *'  conjure  woman."  She  lived 
on  the  edge  of  the  plantation. 

"•  Hit  war  Ma'y  Jane  done  it,"  pursued  Bud, 
with  a  grin ;  '*  she  rid  him  up  agin  a  fence  an' 
mashed  his  laig.  He  sw'ars  he'll  conquer  her  yet. 
I  does  hope  he'll  try  it ;  Ma'y  Jane's  powerful 
scheemy,  powerful.  His  black  boss'  shoulder  riz. 
They  all  split  it,  an'  put  in  a  silver  dime  Dick  paid 


*  Leader  is  a  muscle  or  tendon. 


156  EXPIATION. 

a  greenback  dollar  for  tuh  Aunt  Tennie.  By  the 
light  er  the  moon,  tew,  but  didn't  do  no  good; 
an'  Dick,  he  aims  tuh  ride  Ma'y  Jane." 

"  How  ever  did  you  find  out  all  this,  Bud?" 

"  Wall,  sir,  ole  Tennie,  she  did  come  to  Mistress 
Crowder,  an'  so  I  fotched  her  a  'possum.  I  aimed 
t'  fine  out  whar  Dick  ben,  but  she  wouldn't  let 
on  she  knowed.  I  'lowed  to  go  an'  shoot  a  shoot 
at  him,  if  thar  warn't  tew  big  a  crowd  'raoun' ." 

The  boy  was  as  unconcerned  as  possible  ;  he 
was  not  bragging,  he  was  merely  stating  a  fact. 

*'  You  wouldn't  shoot  a  wounded  man,  would 
you  ?  "  said  Fairfax. 

"  I'd  kill  a  snake  however  ways  I  fund  him," 
said  Bud  ;  "  wudn't  you  ?  " 

*'  No,"  said  Fairfax,  grimly,  "  I  would  drag  him 
out  and  hang  him  !  " 

With  that  he  walked  away,  bitterly  disap- 
pointed, sure  that  Dick  must  be  the  sick  man,  not 
Parson  Collins.  As  he  passed.  Colonel  Ruther- 
ford came  down  one  of  the  little  lanes  or  streets 
between  the  quarters,  at  right  angles  to  that 
down  which  Fair  took  his  way.  He  didn't  see 
his  father. 

"  Fair,"  said  the  Colonel,  huskily. 

Fair  slunk  by,  not  hearing. 


EXPIATION.  157 

The  Colonel  made  a  motion  as  if  to  follow,  but 
instantly  resuming  his  former  demeanor  he  walked 
rapidly  away  in  another  direction.  He  muttered 
to  himself  as  he  went :  '*  Hates  terribly  to  go  ;  but 
he  had  ought  to.  Yes,  sir.  And  the  only  chance 
for  the  lad  to  get  righted  is  to  do  his  duty." 


IX. 

SAY,  Miss  Delia,  they  all  done  it  ;  they  swal- 
lered  the  bait  hull."  It  was  Bud  Fowler 
who  spoke,  his  solemn,  peaked  little  face  alight 
with  something  shrewd  and  fierce  at  once.  He 
had  just  returned  from  Mrs.  Crowder's,  and  was 
talking  to  Adele  in  the  gallery.  '' Dick's  ole  man 
ben  up  thar  an'  got  the  letter,"  said  he.  *'  I  seen 
the  letter.  Mymy !  mymy !  but  they  all  are 
scheemy.  The  ole  'possum,  he  writ  iz  Mist'  Ruth- 
erford ben  thar  an'  got  a  boat  plumb  full  er  sup- 
plies fur  the  store,  an'  he  'oped  graybacks  wudn't 
meet  up  with  him  when  he  landed  daown  by  the 
big  eddy  fur  t'  let  Lum  Marzin  git  the  goods  fur 
his  store  ;  but  did  look  resky  like  t'  him — an'  all 
sich  truck  like  that.  We  cudn't  prove  nary  'gin 
'im  by  that  letter,  nur  nare  letter  he  writ,  neether. 
But  I  'low  he  won't  be  sutler  for  the  Yanks 
longr 

"  Do  you  reckon  Barnabas  will  fight.  Bud  ? " 
said  Adele. 

""  Shore.     Them  graybacks  is  a  ra'rin'  on  we  uns 


v^*f 


U 

t» 

>« 
10 

5 


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E 
o 
•> 

-o 

c 


ca 

Si 

(0 

C 

RS 

CD 
o 


EXPIATION.  159 

now  ;  wud  of  attacktid  Montaigne  a  spell  back, 
hadn't  Dick  ben  laid  by  with  his  laig.  ,  Yaas, 
ma'am,  they'll  fight.  An'  it's  they  uns  or  we  uns 
cleaned  off  the  earth — one  !  " 

He  emphasized  what  he  felt  was  a  manly  senti- 
ment, in  his  own  notion  of  a  manly  manner,  by 
spitting,  with  a  determined  air,  on  one  side.  Thus 
he  happened  to  look  down  the  avenue.  "  Hi  !  " 
he  exclaimed,  "  look  a'  thar.  Miss  Delia  !  " 

Down  the  broad  roadway,  the  silhouettes  of  two 
horsemen  and  a  crowd  on  foot  stretched  before 
the  real  figures.  "  Two  graybacks,  shore's  you 
born,"  Bud  cried,  excitedly  ;  "  ain't  got  thar  hands 
tied  nur  nary — shucks !  they're  comin'  to  guv 
'emseffs  up,"  he  concluded,  in  a  disappointed  tone. 
*'  I  lay  thar  won't  be  nare  hangin',  dad  burn  'em  ! 
Look  a'  them  a  grinnin',  an'  big  Jim,  tew." 

Big  Jim,  a  gigantic  negro,  armed  with  an  axe, 
showed  his  teeth  from  ear  to  ear.  So  did  all  the 
black  faces  behind  him,  and  Mr.  Rawlins,  the  clerk 
at  the  store,  smiled  in  an  excited  way,  like  one 
well  pleased.     He  took  off  his  hat  to  Adele : 

"  Gunnel  here.  Miss  Delia?  " 

Adele  said  that  he  was  in  the  library.  It  seemed 
to  her  a  strange  and  alarming  circumstance  that 
the  three  white  men  should  enter  the  library  unac- 


l60  EXP  I  A  TION. 

companied,  especially  considering  that  the  two 
strangers  carried  their  guns. 

"■  Reckon  I  know  them  two  men/'  said  Bud  ; 
*'  they  don't  be  sich  turrible  wicked  men.  They 
call  'em  Lige  Rosser  and  Sam  Martin.  Expect 
they  sorter  sickened  er  Dick  Barnabas's  ways." 
Adele  was  straining  her  ears  for  some  sound  from 
the  library.  It  came  at  last — a  loud  exclamation 
interrupting  what  seemed  a  low  monotony  of  nar- 
ration, then  a  staccato  exchange  of  question  and 
answer,  finally  the  buzz  of  several  voices. 

"You  see,  Miss  Delia,"  whispered  Bud,  ''that's 
hit."  His  face  sharpened  with  his  own  brooding 
thoughts.  He  stood  digging  his  heel  into  the 
gravel,  his  ridiculous  trousers  blowing  about  him, 
as  absurd  and  inadequate  a  figure  of  retribution 
as  the  fancy  could  conceive ;  yet  Dick  Barnabas's 
Nemesis  waited  in  his  person.  "  Hit's  a  comin'," 
he  muttered  ;  "  Dick  Barnabas  are  a  goin'  ter  git 
his  desarvin's,  shore  ;  'tain't  on'y  the  ole  Cunnel 
ayfter  'im,  an'  'is  own  men  a  fallin'  frum  'im. 
Ghostis  be  ayfter  him.     That's  what." 

"Why  do  you  think  that.  Bud?"  said  Adele, 
listlessly  ;  she  was  still  listening,  and  vainly  trying 
to  distinguish  words  out  of  the  low  murmur  into 
which  the  voices  had  dwindled. 


o 


EXPIATION.  l6l 

"  'Cause  why  ?  "  said  Bud.     -  'Cause  thar's  ben 
smoke    seen    an'   buzzards    sailin'  an'   sailin'  over 
yon',  ye  know  "~Bud  tilted  his  head  backward— 
''  Mist'  Leruge's  place.     Unk'  Nels  seen  it,  an'  big 
Jim,  and  Aunt  Hizzie  she  'lows  Mist'  Leruge  goin' 
t'  go  that  a  way  till  Dick  Barnabas  gits  killed  up  ! 
An'  thar's  more  tew  it.  Miss   Delia.     Slick  Mose 
ben  a  knockin'  raoun'  dretful  oneasy  like,  nickerin' 
like  a  hoss  an'  runnin'— ye  know  the  way  he  does. 
An'  he  wudn't  res'  till  he  tolled  me  off  'longer  him. 
But  when  I  seen  whar  he  ben  aimin'  tuh  cyar  me 
—that    er  same    place,  ye    know— I    got    skeered 
up,  kase    I    didn't    never   have    no    dealin's   with 
ghostis,  an'  I  didn't  crave  t'  seek  'em.      So  I  lit 
out  fer  home.    But  I  ben  studyin'  'baout  it.    Fust, 
looked  like  tew  me   that  ar  ghostis- ben  jes' like 
the  painters  what  wags  thar  tails  fur  tew  toll  on 
the  sheep;  but   then   I   considered    iz   how  Mist' 
Leruge  didn't  had  nare  grudge  agin  me,  not  the 
least  bit  on  earth,  so  how  come  he'd  seek  t'  do  me 
mean  1     Same  way  'baout  Mose  ;  but  him  and  me 
both  got  a  grudge  agin  the  graybacks,  an'  I  putt  it 
up  that  ar  ghostis  are  jes'  sendin'  Mose  fur  t'  fotch 
me ;   an'  he  are   goin'   show  me  some  way  t'  hurt 
Dick  Barnabas.     An'  next  time  Mose  axes  me  go 
thar,  I  are  goin'.     Yaas,  ma'am,"  said  Bud,  reso^ 


II 


1 62  EXPIATION. 

lutely,  though  the  superstitious  heart  of  him  was 
quaking.  He  jumped  to  his  feet,  having  caught  a 
gHmpse  of  Shck  Mose  dodging  through  the  gar- 
den. *'  By  gum,"  he  muttered,  ''he  does  be  sig- 
nalhng  now."  With  that  he  nodded  to  Delia,  and 
was  off  like  a  gunshot. 

Delia  stood  a  second,  then  reflecting  that  she  had 
no  right  to  listen,  she  entered  the  house.  Thus 
it  occurred  that  she  neither  saw  Bud  racing  after 
Slick  Mose  toward  the  swamp,  nor  could  watch 
the  group  which  presently  plunged  out  of  the 
library  window  in  mad  haste  ;  but  she,  like  every 
one  else,  heard,  for  the  first  time  in  many  months, 
the  forest  flinging  back  the  echoes  of  a  boat  whis- 
tle. She  ran  to  the  river  shore.  The  low  after- 
noon sun  silvered  the  rippling  water,  and  lay 
along  the  withered  grass  of  the  bank,  and  pierced 
far  back  into  the  forest  cloisters.  Rifts  of  smoke 
curled  lazily  through  a  still  atmosphere.  Children 
were  playing  by  some  humble  doors.  In  the  dim 
vistas  of  the  woods  the  infinite  softness  of  leafless 
tracery  against  the  sky  took  on  hues  of  purple 
and  carmine.  Across  the  river  the  silver  sycamore 
masts  rose  out  of  a  haze  of  underbrush,  where  one 
could  see  a  few  negroes  driving  cattle,  which 
moved  slowly,  lowing  and  tinkling  their  bells,  out 


EXPIATION.  163 

from  the  green  sea  of  cane.  Winter  in  the  upper 
South  has  an  austere  yet  not  ungentle  beauty, 
following  the  splendor  of  the  other  seasons  like  a 
meek  sister  of  charity  in  the  train  of  a  queen.  It 
is  a  loveliness  (for  it  is  soft  enough  for  that  name) 
which  does  not  appeal  to  the  senses,  but  it  touches 
the  heart. 

How  peaceful,  how  safe  the  scene  looked  to  the 
beholder,  who  had  loved  it  all  her  life.  Yet  the 
scream  tearing  from  that  iron  throat  was  at  once 
alarum  and  rallying-cry  ;  it  meant  all  the  savagery 
of  battle,  it  might  mean  havoc  and  despair.  For 
a  second  her  firm  head  played  her  false  enough  to 
picture  flames  leaping  from  those  low  roofs,  and 
the  poor  earth-tillers  lying  stark  and  stiff  among 
the  cotton-stalks,  and  little  children  under  the 
merciless  hoofs,  and  all  the  awful  tumult  of  flight 
for  life.  That  was  no  more  than  they  had  to  ex- 
pect should  the  graybacks  win.  ''  But  they  won't 
win  !  "  said  Adele,  and  directly  she  lifted  a  brave 
smile  to  her  uncle,  mounted  now  at  the  head  of 
his  troop. 

Her  mother  ran  out  and  kissed  him  before 
them  all,  and  then  ran  swiftly  back  to  the  house. 
Adele's  turn  for  his  farewells  was  next.  He  pat- 
ted her  on  the  back,  and  even  in  the  stress  of  the 


164  EXPIATION. 

moment's  emotions  she  remarked  his  altered  man- 
ner— -a  sparkle  in  his  eye,  an  erect  carriage,  and 
the  old  look  of  alert  confidence  on  his  face,  as  he 
whispered  :  "  Tell  Fair  to  chirk  up,  Collins  is  alive 
and  kicking.  Give  him  my  love  ;  tell  him  I  know 
he'll  look  out  for  your  maw  and  you.  Give  him 
the  '  Montaigne  '  too.  Will's  in  the  little  black 
box.  You're  a  good  girl,  Delia.  God  bless  you  ! 
Yoii  look  ayfter  Fair." 

Then  his  glance  fell  on  the  little  crowd  of  slaves 
who  had  hurried,  by  this  time,  to  "  de  big  house." 

*'  Boys,"  said  he,  "and  all  of  you,  Fm  going  this 
evening  to  give  every  man  and  woman  in  Law- 
rence County  the  right  to  sleep  nights.  And 
those  thieves  and  murderers  that  have  been 
hounding  us,  we'll  give  them  a  sleep  that'll  last 
till  the  day  of  judgment." 

The  men  set  up  a  cheer.  Adele  heard  the  order 
to  march.  They  were  going  ;  their  flying  hoofs 
beat  a  cloud  along  the  road ;  they  reached  the 
brow  of  the  hill  ;  the  shadow  of  the  cypresses  re- 
ceived them  ;  they  were  gone. 

Aunt  Hizzie,  centre  of  the  black  group  in  the 
gallery,  relieved  her  own  pent-up  feeling  by  cuff- 
ing the  nearest  wailer  and  sending  the  rest  right 
and  left  "■  tuh  make  ready  a  big  supper." 


o 


EXPIATION.  165 

''Yent  no  call  you'n,"  she  declaimed  to  Nels, 
who  would  have  reproached  her  for  studying  'bout 
eating  an'  drinking  when  most  like  'ole  marse  or 
somebuddy  would  get  killed  up,  and  it  would  be 
a  house  of  mourning. 

''  Yent  no  call  er  you'n  ef  folkses  does  git  killed 
up.  Dem  dat  doan'  be  killed  up  got  t'  eat,  doan' 
dey  ?    Doan'  ye  take  on,  nigger,  dar  be  nuff  leff !  " 

''  An'  how  ef  Mist'  Dick  Barnabas  licks  we  uns, 
an'  cums  a  rampin'  an'  a  ragin'  daown  yere  ?  Hay, 
Hizzie  !  "  said  Nels,  with  acrimony.  ^'  Whar  you' 
big  supper  den  ?  " 

But   he  could  not  daunt  his  consort.     She  re- 
torted :   -Yent  Mist'  Dick  Barnabas  got  a  stom- 
mick  hke  de  restis  er  men  persons  ?     I  lay  he  be  a 
heap  apter  not  t'  kill  we  all  ayfter  a  plumb  good 
supper.     You  heah  me  !    You,  Solomon  Izril,  shet 
up    you'    mouf,    de    sun    gwine    warp    you'    teef. 
Make  haste,  kill  dem  banty  chickens.    You,  Judy, 
look  in  de  nestes  fo'  aigs.     You,  Charley,  git  de 
po'k.     Keep   a  runnin',  keep   a   runnin'  !     Cayn't 
work  agin   a   cole  collar,-   nare  un  er  yer,  trifflin', 
ornery— ye  jes'  does  w'ar  me  tuh  a  frazzle !  " 
Aunt  Hizzie  disappeared  into  the  gallery,  driv- 

*  A  horse,  in  Arkansas,  is  said   not  to  work  with  a  cold  collar 
when  he  must  be  heated  before  he  will  run  or  work. 


1 66  EXPIATION. 

ing  her  flock  before  her,  leaving  Nels  to  gloomily 
demand  of  the  world  in  general  what  we  were  all 
coming  to  when  wives  berated  and  ra'red  on  their 
husbands,  so  scandilus  like  ?  Maybe  Hizzie  would 
feel  bad  when  the  graybacks  killed  him  plumb 
dead.  She  wouldn't  find  it  so  easy  to  get  another 
husband  to  be  patient  with  her,  like  him. 

A  loud  snort  of  contempt  from  the  gallery 
betrayed  that  Hizzie  had  heard.  "Huh!"  she 
bawled,  "  you  yent  gwine  get  killed  up,  not  long's 
ye  kin  run  !  An'  if  ye  ben,  dar's  plenty  more  like 
yer  leff.  Weeds  is  a  sho'  crap  !  "  And  (whether 
with   or   without   malice)   she   lifted   her  voice  in 


song 


"  Jestice  settin'  on  de  sprangles  er  de  sun  ; 
Jestice  done  plumb  de  line  ! 
Cries  hypocrite,  hypocrite,  I  despise, 
Wings  is  craptid,  kin  not  rise. 
Jestice  done  plumb  de  line  !  " 

Meanwhile,  up-stairs,  Adele  made  what  prepara- 
tions for  an  impromptu  hospital  their  means  al- 
lowed. Soon  these  were  completed,  and  there 
was  nothing  left  her  but  to  wait. 

Her  mother  was  shut  up  in  her  room.  She 
had  come  out  to  help,  but,  finding  all  done,  was 
gone  back  to  her  Bible  and  her  prayers. 


o 


EXPIATION.  167 

Adele  climbed  to  the  roof  of  the  house.  She 
had  a  companion,  the  old  lieutenant  left  in 
charge,  because  his  arm  had  been  injured  in  the 
last  skirmish.  A  paroled  soldier,  like  most  of 
Colonel  Rutherford's  men,  he  was  fuming  over  his 
own  inaction.  "  I  have  got  scouts  out  all  over," 
he  exclaimed,  ''  and  if  the  rascals  make  a  show 
against  us  I  can  send  word  mighty  quick  to  the 
Colonel.  The  niggers  will  fight  for  their  own 
necks,  and  they  hate  Barnabas  like  the  devil. 
Besides,  we've  got  three  or  four  white  men,  crip- 
pled up  like  me,  and  some  likely  boys.  Where's 
Bud  Fowler  at  ?  I  wanted  to  make  him  a  sort  of 
aide-de-camp  ;  but  Nels  tells  me  he  went  off  with 
that  crazy  fellow — what's  his  name  ?  " 

Adele's  reply  was  interrupted  by  a  sharp  crack- 
ling noise,  then  another  similar  sound,  and  an- 
other. The  firing  had  begun.  Her  cheek  paled, 
but  the  old  soldier  eagerly  adjusted  his  field-glass. 
"  I  can  see  the  smoke-stack  of  the  boat,"  he 
shouted.  "  As  sure  as  you're  born  they  are  at 
it  !     Say,  does  Dick  ride  a  white  mule  ?" 

''  He  had  a  white  mule,  Mr.  Collins's  white 
mule.  Oh,  Mr.  Lemew,  did  uncle  hear  that  Mr. 
Collins  wasn't  dead?" 

''  Parson  Collins  ?     Yes,    ma'am.     That's   what 


1 68  EXPIATION. 

they  all  were  saying  !  "  He  held  the  glass  in  his 
hand,  standing  recklessly  on  the  peak  of  the 
roof,  and  becoming  more  excited  every  moment. 
What  would  not  Adele  have  given  for  one  peep 
through  the  black  tubes  !  Oblivious  of  her  pres- 
ence, he  stood  on  tiptoe,  twisting  and  craning  his 
head  in  a  futile  effort  to  bring  the  combat  into 
his  field  of  vision.  He  ran  from  one  portion  of 
the  roof-tree  to  another.  All  in  vain.  "  I've  got 
to  be  higher,"  said  he.  "  Say,  Miss  Delia,  if  I  get 
up  on  one  of  those  chimlieys,  do  you  reckon  you 
can  hold  me  steady?" 

Adele  felt  the  situation  to  be  a  galling  travesty 
of  the  manner  in  which  Rebecca  reports  the 
storming  of  the  castle  to  Ivanhoe.  But  she  had 
no  right  to  snatch  the  glass ;  she  was  the  inferior 
ofificer ;  she  could  only  help  her  portly  commander 
up  on  the  brick  ledge,  where  he  balanced  himself 
as  best  he  might,  while  she  served  as  prop  below, 
burning  with  impatience.  It  was  insupportable 
to  watch  him  focussing  the  glasses,  elevating  them, 
depressing  them,  shaking  his  head  or  nodding  it, 
all  the  while  muttering  his  ridiculous  compli- 
ments and  apologies. 

''  Thank  you,  thank  you,  my  dear  young  lady, 
that  does  right  well,   ma'am.     I  trust   I   am   not 


o 


EXPIATION.  169 

making  you  too  uncomfortable.  If  I  had  got  two 
legs — but  the  bullet  I  got  at  Helena  has  left  one 
of  them  powerful  weak.  You  are  a  mighty  brave 
young  lady,  you  are  so.  Ah-h — yes.  There  they 
are,  for  a  fact.     Humph  !  " 

From  his  new  post  he  could  look  over  the  trees 
down  to  the  river-bank  by  the  eddy.  The  boat 
was  plainly  visible,  and  an  incessant  rattle  of 
gunshots  was  quite  audible,  since  they  were 
barely  two  miles  away.  The  battle-ground  had 
been  chosen  thus  near  the  houses  on  purpose, 
because,  being  within  easy  reach,  should  occasion 
for  defence  occur,  therefore  they  might  spare  the 
more  men  for  attack. 

^'  Can  you  see.  Captain  Lemew  ?"  asked  Adele. 
The  quiver  in  her  patient  voice  touched  the  sol- 
dier. He  answered,  hastily  :  "You  want  to  see 
too,  I  reckon.  Well,  I'll  tell  you  all  I  can.  I  can 
see  the  boat,  and  the  graybacks  trying  to  board, 
and  the  boat  fellows  fighting.     Cursed  few  of  the 

blue    coats.     D their    suspicions  !     Heap    of 

smoke  everywhere.  Cayn't  make  out  much.  Our 
folks  ain't  got  there."     • 

*'  Can  you  make  out  any — any  person  ?  " 

*'  Well,  I  don't  know ;  I  reckon  I  can  young 
Rutherford.       The   young    fellow    isn't    in    com- 


1 70  EXP  I  A  tion: 

mand,  I  expect,  but  he  is  a  fighter.  Knows 
how  to  obey  orders,  too.  I  Hked  the  looks  of 
him  in  the  httle  brush  we  all  had  with  the  gray- 
backs." 

His  eyes  were  glued  to  his  glass,  and  he  could 
not  see  the  color  dyeing  his  listener's  pale  cheeks. 
He  continued,  half  to  himself :  ''  Most  young  fel- 
lows think  all  they  have  got  to  do  to  make  sol- 
diers is  to  rush  ahead  like  a  mad  bull.  Don't 
know  whether  it  is  Shakespeare  or  some  other 
poet  author  says,  '  Discretion  is  the  better  part  of 
valor,'  but  he  has  hit  it  ;  hurrah !  that's  the  old 
man  on  'em  !  Now — they're  charging  !  Parson 
Collins,  sure's  you're  born  !  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  Please  tell  me,  Captain  Lemew. 
Have  the  others  come  ?  " 

The  old  soldier  was  prancing  about  in  a  truly 
perilous  manner  ;  but  for  her  clutching  his  skirts 
and  steadying  him  he  had  more  than  once  plunged 
bodily  down  the  chimney. 

"  Oh,  my  Lord,  to  be  tied  up  here  !  Go  it  !  go 
it !  At  'em  again  !  "  screamed  Lemew,  wildly. 
"■  Good  for  you,  grayback  !  That's  one  of  the 
fellows  came  this  morning.  Saved  Parson  Collins. 
Will  you  look  at  the  Parson  ?  They  all  reckon 
he's  dead,  they're  'lowing  he's   a  ghost.     By  gum. 


o 


EXPIATION.  171 

they're  breaking  !     Now,  now,  why  in  don't 

you  try  that  horn  on  Ma'y  Jane  ?  " 

*'  They  are,  they  are  !  "  cried  Adele,  *'  hark  to 
it  !  " 

Thin  and  clear,  both  the  listeners  heard  the 
far-away  notes  of  a  horn. 

Lemew,  in  wild  exultation,  unable  to  spare  a 
hand  from  the  glass,  nearly  sprawled  astride  the 
chimney  because  he  must  needs  kick  triumphantl}^ 
with  one  leg. 

*'  She's  a  coming  I  "  he  yelled,  ''  she  knows  the 
old  horn.  Look  at  her  burn  the  wind  !  Dick 
cayn't  hold  her  in  !  Ha  !  ha  !  Whoop-ee  !  Good 
Lord  "  (with  a  sudden  drop  of  the  voice  to  a 
groan),  "  that  devil  would  conquer  everything ; 
he's  faced  her  around.      Hi  !  " 

"  What  is  it,  please,  what  is  it,  sir  ? "  Adele 
pleaded. 

"  You  cayn't  see,  for  a  fact.  Wisht  we  had  two 
glasses.  I  have  to  look,  you  understand ;  obliged. 
Why,  what  I  was  hollering  at  was  Dick  turned 
plum  on  young  Rutherford,  and  if  that  grayback, 
Lige,  hadn't  caught  the  blow,  you'd  had  one 
cousin  the  less,  and  a  brave  one,  too." 

"But  he  ^z-^/f  * 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  and  got  a  bullet  for  his  pains,  I 


172  expiation; 

reckon.  Any  way  and  anyhow  he's  dropped.  Now 
they're  in  the  smoke  again.  No  use,  Dick,  you 
cayn't  rally  them." 

It  was  indeed  vain.  The  guerillas  were  flying 
in  every  direction,  and  at  last  the  captain  trium- 
phantly flourished  his  glass  in  the  air. 

*'  We'll  bag  the  whole  gang  'most,  Miss  Delia.' 
The  Colonel  has  got  them  on  two  sides,  and  the 
river's  on  the  other.  They're  making  for  the 
swamp,  all  broke  up.  Well,  ain't  that  like  Ralph 
Rutherford  ?  " 

"  Please,  what,  Captain  Lemew  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  you  can't  see."  (The  captain  had  the 
glass  at  his  eyes  again.)  "  Why,  the  old  man, 
if  you  please,  jist  jumped  off  his  horse  and  gave 
her  to  the  young  feller.  Let  him  run  after  Dick. 
He's  loped  a  loose  horse  himself.  He's  ayfter 
'em  too  ;  but  he  cayn't  keep  up.     No,  sir." 

"  That  was  Betty  Ward.    She's  our  best  horse." 

The  captain  danced  anew  while  he  looked. 
"  There  he  runs,  the  precious  murdering  cut- 
throat," he  yelled  ;  *'  they're  ayfter  him  like  a  pack 
of  dogs  ayfter  a  wild  hog!  Oh,  dad  gum  your 
ornery  hide  !  That  fool  mule  is  jest  splitting  the 
mud  !  Four  fellers  ayfter  him — pshaw  !  one  of 
'em's   down.     Dick's  firing.     Three    left.     Young 


o 


EXPIATION.  173 

Rutherford's  gaining.  Dear,  dear,  dear,  ain't  that 
too  bad  !  " 

''  What— what " 

"  One  of  the  horses  made  a  blunder.  Throwed 
his  rider.  Only  two  more.  Thunder  !  his  horse 
is  played  out  !  What  a  stumble  !  Dick  will  get 
off.  No,  maybe  he  won't.  Young  Rutherford's 
gaining — no — yes  — cuss  the  trees  !  Cayn't  see 
them  now  ;  they're  in  the  slash.'' 

'*  Won't  they  come  out  ?  " 

"  Gone  the  wrong  way,  but  take  the  glass  your- 
self. It's  my  turn  now  with  the  wagons  and  after 
the  stragglers." 

He  scrambled  down  as  he  spoke.  The  wagons 
stood  ready,  fitted  up  roughly  with  cotton-seed, 
and  blankets  above,  for  ambulances.  The  few 
white  men  were  mounted,  and  negroes  sat  in  the 
wagons. 

But  Adele  lingered  on  the  roof,  vainly  searching 
the  darkening  belt  of  forest  against  the  horizon. 
Minute  after  minute  passed,  one  fright-blurred 
glance  after  another  peered  down  the  forest-aisles 
— useless  trouble,  he  was  gone  to  his  unknown 
peril  !  No  one  to  help  him,  and  Dick  Barnabas 
was  cruel  and  wily  as  a  tiger,  and  knew  the  swamp 
by  heart. 


174  EXPIATION, 

"  At  least,  at  least,  I  can  always  be  proud  of 
him,"  she  thought. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  a  sore  heart  ;  and  she  re- 
peated it  like  a  talisman  as  she  worked,  after- 
ward. 


o 


X. 


FAIRFAX  held  his  way  after  Barnabas,  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  swamp.  One  feature  of 
the  scenery  is  all  that  he  remembers  ;  everywhere, 
the  microscopic  softness  of  tree  and  shrub  articu- 
lation was  spattered  with  myriads  of  tiny  berries, 
red  like  blood.  Dick  never  looked  behind.  Betty 
Ward  put  her  head  down  and  galloped — galloped. 
Logs  had  fallen,  their  black  pointed  boughs  sticking 
up  in  the  air  like  javelins.  There  was  a  tangle  of 
elbow-brush  and  brier.  It  Avas  hard  riding.  Fair- 
fax left  the  road  to  the  horse.  If  she  did  not 
know  it,  the  chase  was  lost,  anyhow.  He  sat  well 
back  in  the  saddle,  but  with  his  body  inclined  a 
little,  and  his  eyes  never  left  the  bare  head  in 
front,  with  the  floating  black  hair  which  rose  and 
sank  as  the  mule's  white  flanks  flashed  through 
the  cane.  He  felt  no  fear.  When  his  father  gave 
him  Betty  Ward  hadn't  he  said,  "  Well  done, 
Fair;  you  done  well,  boy.  Dick  belongs  to  you. 
Take  Betty  and  catch  him." 

The  approval  of  one  simple,  rustic,  heroic  gen- 


176  EXPIATION. 

tleman  was  more  to  Fair  than  all  the  world's, 
than  Adele's  even  ;  he  felt  that  he  could  storm 
a  fort.  Gentle  as  his  nature  was,  he  was  pos- 
sessed by  the  hunter's  fury  and  the  terrible  joy 
of  fight. 

And  Dick  ?  Who  knows  what  were  his  thoughts, 
and  why  he  chose  the  direction  in  which  he  sped? 
Perhaps  it  seemed  to  him  a  temporary  sanctuary 
protected  by  superstition  (for  it  was  toward  La 
Rouge's  farm  that  he  spurred  Ma'y  Jane  until  her 
white  sides  were  streaked  with  red),  and  his  sole 
pursuer  he  valued  lightly.  He  could  soon  quiet 
that  boy.  His  revolver  was  empty,  but  so  was  the 
other's,  or  he  would  have  fired.  Little  it  mattered 
to  Dick  that  the  buzzards  were  skurrying  along 
the  sky  over  the  murdered  Frenchman's  grave. 
Ma'y  Jane  floundered  bravely  through  the  morass. 
Where  she  climbed  on  firm  ground,  a  broken- 
down  corner  of  a  fence  stood,  relic  of  one  of  La 
Rouge's  rail-fences.  Dick  wheeled  his  horse  to 
face  Fair. 

"  Wa'al,  Bud,  come  on,"  he  cried,  lifting  his 
sword.  Doubtless  his  intention  was  to  set  on  his 
enemy  just  as  he  was  struggling  out  of  the  mud. 
He  stuck  his  spurs  into  the  mule.  Either  he  for- 
got  Ma'y  Jane's  evil  conditions,  or,  having  mas- 


o 


EXPIATION.  177 

tered  her  once,  he  believed  too  fondly  in  his  own 
powers.  He  essayed  to  ride  at  Fair,  past  the 
fence-corner. 

Immediately  he  realized  his  folly  ;  Ma'y  Jane's 
head  had  gone  in  the  air  with  her  heels,  while  fire 
flashed  out  of  her  wicked  eyes ;  she  jammed 
Dick's  leg  against  the  rails  with  such  force  that 
he  reeled  in  the  saddle  ;  the  second  after,  he  was 
hurled  backward  into  the  swamp.  It  was  the 
deepest  place  ;  the  wretched  man  sank  up  to  his 
waist  in  mire. 

Fair  easily  made  a  landing.  His  enemy  was 
only  a  blasted  torso  rising  out  of  black  slime. 
Slime  streaked  his  face  and  matted  his  hair.  Be- 
fore a  word  could  be  said,  he  threw  up  his  hands, 
dripping  hideously  like  the  rest  of  him. 

Fair,  whether  or  not  he  recognized  a  gesture 
equivalent  to  a  white  flag,  perceived  that  the  man 
was  at  his  mercy. 

Deliberately  he  loaded  his  pistol. 

Dick's  teeth  glittered  in  an  awful  grin  of  hate 
and  fear. 

''  Be  ye  aimin'  t'  kill  me,  an'  me  with  my  hands 
up  ?"  he  shrieked.  "  God,  it's  murder  !  You're  no 
better  nor  me  !  " 

'^  I  am  not  going  to  shoot  you,"  answered  Fair- 
12 


1/8  EXPIATION. 

fax,  sternly,  ''  I  am  going  to  guard  you  till  the 
others  come  up." 

Dick's  other  manner,  his  fawning  smoothness, 
was  on  him  now,  while,  nevertheless,  he  eyed 
Fairfax  with  a  gaze  venomous  through  all  its  ter- 
ror, like  the  eyes  of  a  trapped  rat.  ''  Mist'  Ruth- 
erford," he  began,  ''  they  won't  come.  They  all 
'low  this  place  is  ha'nted.  Look  a  yere,  we're  jes' 
two  gentlemen  together;  I  own  up  I  done  you  dirt 
mean — I  do.  I  ax  you'  pardin.  Nare  gentleman 
kin  do  more,  kin  they,  now  ?  I  see  you'  a  brave 
man.     I  'lowed  to  fight  ye  fair  an'  the  bes'  man 

win.     But  now  you  see  my  d condition;   I'm 

chillin'  this  minnit,  in  this  slush.  Now,  look  a 
yere,  you  know  I  are  a  man  er  my  word.  Dick 
Barnabas  never  did  rue  back.  You  slew  that  er 
hackberry  branch  over  my  way,  an'  holp  me  out, 
an'  I  guv  my  word  er  honor  I'll  light  a  shuck  outer 
this  kentry,  t'night,  an'  you  all  will  be  shet  er 
Dick  Barnabas  fur  ever  more." 

''  No,"  said  Fairfax. 

The  cold  drops  stood  on  Dick's  forehead.  "  You 
'low  I'll  keep  on  jayhawkin',  some'ers  else?"  he 
cried.  "  I  sw'ar  I  won't.  I'll  lead  an  honest  life. 
I'll  jine  the  Confederate  army." 

He  was   in   earnest.     But   it   was  his   unhappy 


EXP  I  A  TION.  1 79 

fate  that  his  one  virtue  was  little  known  to  his 
judge,  and  that,  moreover,  on  the  single  occasion 
of  his  other  meeting  with  the  latter  he  had  pushed 
his  shrewdness  very  near  knavery.  Any  other 
man  who  fought  Dick  Barnabas  that  day  had  felt 
assured  that  he  would  keep  his  word ;  Fairfax 
Rutherford  only  remembered  how,  once,  he  had 
"  kept  his  promise  to  the  ear,  only  to  break  it  to 
the  sense." 

Yet  he  was  touched.  Motion  has  much  to  do 
with  the  fever  of  the  blood  we  call  rage,  that 
helps  a  man  through  a  vast  deal  of  slaughter. 
Fairfax  sat  at  rest  in  his  saddle  ;  he  could  feel  his 
horse  pant,  and  could  draw  a  long  breath  himself. 
Besides,  he  was  a  kind-hearted  young  fellow,  who 
hated  to  see  a  fox  killed ;  and  here  was  a  pitiful 
spectacle,  a  human  being  in  so  horrid  a  plight, 
begging  his  life.  He  felt  his  violent  desires  ebbing 
away.  More  than  he  had  wanted  to  slay  the  out- 
law before,  he  wanted  to  save  him  now. 

Dick's  glassy  black  balls  never  missed  a  change 
in  the  other's  face ;  he  saw  the  wavering,  he  went 
on  eagerly,  rapidly :  "  Look  a  yere,  it's  natchell,  I 
know,  fur  ye  t'  lay  up  agin  me  how  I  done  ye.  I'll 
make  up.  I  got  a  heap  er  truck  hid  away.  I'll 
show   ye  whar  'tis,   if   ye   let    me   go !      Ain't    I 


I  So  EXPIATION. 

makin'  up  ?  Ye  kin  give  it  ter  the  other  folkses, 
if  ye  like.  Tell  ye,  they  all  vvud  heap  ruther  git 
thar  money  back  to  havin'  me  killed  up.  Ye  know 
they  wud." 

They  might,  Fair  thought.  And  perhaps  he 
was  taking  a  private  revenge  instead  of  acting, 
against  his  compassion,  for  the  public  good  alone. 
How  ghastly  he  looked,  poor  wretch  !  Must  he 
guard  him  until  help  came,  with  night  approach- 
ing ?  They  might  be  an  hour  riding  there,  two 
hours — they  might  not  come  all  night.  Fair 
turned  sick  at  the  thought  of  the  wretch  freezing 
and  fainting  in  the  cold  ooze.  Why,  it  were  more 
merciful  to  shoot  him  on  the  spot.  '^  I  shall  have 
to,  if  they  are  too  long  !  '*  he  groaned.  The  sheer 
human  repulsion  from  such  butchery  mastered 
him.  But  he  sat  motionless.  Could  he  believe 
Dick  ?  Inexorably,  his  experience  answered,  no. 
His  reason,  beginning  to  speak,  reminded  him 
that,  this  one  man  dead,  there  would  be  an  end  of 
brigandage  in  the  Black  River  country.  The  fields 
would  be  tilled,  the  crops  planted,  honest  men 
would  ride  freely  about  their  business,  women  and 
children  would  no  longer  live  in  terror.  Let  them 
only  know  that  Dick  had  been  captured  and  killed, 
the  rogues  left  would  think  of  nothing  but  hiding. 


EXPIATION.  l8l 

He  remembered  his  own  oath  to  bring  Jim 
Fowler's  assassin  to  justice ;  yet  that  did  not 
count  Hke  other  things,  like  the  chances  for  Dick's 
followers,  for  instance.  Were  he  to  let  Dick  es- 
cape, every  wounded  prisoner  would  be  hung  be- 
fore sundown.  Colonel  Rutherford  was  fully  per- 
suaded that  the  peace  of  the  country  required  an 
awful  example.  Dick  was  the  leader  ;  Dick  exe- 
cuted, he  might  prevail  on  his  father  to  show 
mercy  to  the  minor  ruffians.  Fairfax  did  not  de- 
ceive himself.  He  judged  Dick's  doom  righteous 
and  necessary ;  what  was  intolerable  was  to  be  the 
executioner. 

''  I  am  a  coward  again,"  thought  he,  with  an  in- 
expressible sinking  of  the  soul.  And  on  the 
heels  of  that  thought  came  another:  Here  was  his 
expiation  for  that  past  shame,  to  deliver  the  mur- 
derer to  justice. 

And  whatever  may  be  said  for  or  against  his 
decision,  no  one  of  the  fearless  soldiers  and  states- 
men who  were  Fairfax  Rutherford's  ancestors  ever 
did  a  braver  act  or  one  better  becoming  a  good 
citizen,  than  he  then  ;  choosing  the  worst  torture 
to  a  man  of  sensibility,  the  torture  of  inflicting 
pain  before  the  risk  of  calamity  to  the  common- 
wealth. 


1 82  EXPIATION. 

But  he  could  not  meet  Dick's  wicked,  scared 
eyes;  he  turned  his  head  as  he  answered  : 

"  It's  no  use,  Barnabas ;  I  bear  you  no  mahce, 
but  I  can't  let  you  go." 

"  Ye  dasiit  let  me  go  !  You'  a  cyovvard ! " 
screamed  the  wretch.     His  voice  was  terrible. 

Fairfax's  face  was  whiter  than  his.  Instead  of 
replying  to  the  taunt,  he  pulled  a  whiskey  flask 
out  of  his  pocket  and  threw  it  to  the  outlaw, 
calling  him  to  catch  it,  drink  it — it  would  keep  the 
cold  out. 

But  he  would  not  look  at  the  man  gulping  down 
the  liquor  in  furious  haste. 

He  wheeled  his  horse  to  ride  back  a  little  dis- 
tance, thinking  thus  to  get  a  better  view  through 
the  trees,  and  to  call  for  help.  At  the  same  in- 
stant Betty  Ward  shied,  and  something  like  a  line 
of  white  fire  sheared  the  air  past  him,  to  bury  it- 
self in  a  cypress-trunk,  where  it  hung  quivering — 
Dick  Barnabas's  bowie-knife. 

Fairfax  turned.  But  not  for  the  useless  blow ; 
he  turned  because  the  wood  was  reverberating 
with  the  crash  of  a  gunshot  and  a  scream  of  agony. 

Where  Dick  had  stood  there  remained  only  an 
awful  bas-relief  of  a  head  and  shoulders  flung  face 
downward  with  outstretched  arms  on  the  smooth, 


EXPIA  rioN. 


IB3 


black  mud.  A  hand  moved  once.  The  wind  Hfted 
the  long  black  hair.  That  was  all.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments the  smooth  black  surface  was  unbroken. 

Bud  Fowler  slipped  calmly  down  from  his  perch 
in    a    swamp    hackberry-tree,   at    right    angles   to 
Fair.     He  was  neither  pale  nor  flushed,  but  sallow 
and    freckled   and    solemn- 
looking,  as  usual.      And,  as 
usual,  one  of  his  hands  was 
hitching  up  his  trousers. 

"  All  that  ar  good  whis- 
key plumb  wasted  !  "  was 
his  first  speech  ;  "  wa'al,  he 
won't    drink    no    more.      I 

promised  maw  Fd  kill  'im, 

an'  I  done  it." 

*'  Perhaps  you'll  be  good 

enough    to    tell    me  where 
yoit  came  from,  Bud,"  said 

Fair,  who  felt  horribly 

shaken,  and  found  a  certain 

relief  in  speaking  lightly. 

''Oh,  I  b'en  yere  right  along,"  replied  Bud,  his 

drawling  accent  not  a  whit  hurried  by  excitement. 

"  Berries  is  thick  up  thar,  an'  hid  me.     I  'lowed  to 

shoot,  onyhow,  but  I  sorter  waited  tuh  hear  Dick 


1 84  EXP  I  A  TION, 

beg  fur  marcy,  kase  he  never  did  show  none.  I 
was  jes'  gettin'  ready  w'en  you  throwed  the  mean 
skunk  you'  w'iskey.  '  Laws,'  says  I,  '  let  the  crit- 
ter get  one  drink  daown  'im,  fust !  '  w'en,  blame 
my  skin,  ef  he  didn't  up  an'  shy  that  ar  knife  at 
ye.  Tell  ye,  I  let  drive  mighty  quick.  Hit  him 
fine,  didn't  I?" 

"  He  gave  a  nasty  scream." 

Bud  grinned.  "  That  warn't  him  a  schreechin'. 
He  tumbled  over  still's  a  wild  hoeg,  an'  ye  cayn't 
git  nare  squeal  outer  them  ef  ye  cut  'em  ter 
pieces.*  That  ar'  b'en  Mose.  He  never  kin  see 
nobody  hurted  without  squealin'.  All  right,  Mose. 
Good  Mose !  " 

Mose  stuck  '■'■  his  long  locks  colored  like  copper 
wine  "  out  from  his  ambush  of  live-oak  leaves. 
Beholding  Fair,  he  nodded  vigorously,  then  he 
cast  his  eyes  down  on  the  swamp  and  shuddered. 

"  Mose  tolled  me  yere,"  said  Bud;  "  I  'lowed  he 
b'en  seekin'  tuh  have  me  meet  up  with — him  they 
says  santers  raoun'  yere;  an'  I  are  shore,"  added 
Bud,  hurriedly,  and  with  elaborate  civility,  lest 
the  invisible  denizen  of  the  swamp  might  take  his 


*  A  fact.     One  may  cut  a  wild  pig's  throat  and  he  will  only 
gnash  his  teeth.     They  fight  to  the  last. 


EXPIATION.  185 

words  amiss,  "  I  are  shore  he  got  the  bestis  right 
yere.  But,  fact  war,  Mose  he  done  fund  aout 
some  caches,  yere.  Ye  know  he  are  forever  pro- 
jickin'  raoun'  tuh  find  things.  An'  he  wanted  me 
tuh  come  find  'em,  tew.  Though  I  ain't  noways 
faultin'  him  " — his  tone  sank  in  propitiation 
again — ''  mos'  Hke  he  shew  SHck  Mose  all  the 
plunder.  Say,  Dick  needn't  of  offered  tuh  tell 
whar  he  kep'  his  truck ;  Mose  an'  me  kin  tell  ye. 
This  yere  tree  an'  whar  he  are,  tew,  does  be  jes' 
plumb  full." 


.         XL 

AMONG  the  wounded  in  the  fight  with  the 
graybacks  was  Lige.  With  the  other 
wounded  men  he  was  carried  back  to  the  planta- 
tion ;  and  at  sunrise,  next  morning,  was  aroused 
out  of  a  deHrious  stupor  by  a  volley  of  musketry. 
He  asked  feebly  what  it  meant.  Sam  was  at  his 
side. 

''  Wa'al,  ye  know,  we  uns  won,"  said  he. 

"  Be  the  ole  man  a  shootin'  all  the  boys  ?" 

"  Naw,  naw,"  replied  Sam,  briskly,  "  we  uns 
taken  a  heap  er  pris'ners,  but  young  Rutherford 
he  did  beg  most  on  'em  off.  On'y  four  b'en  shot, 
Mack  an'  Ziah  an'  tew  them  Teague  boys  iz  killed 
the  ole  woman.  Restis  got  off,  promisin'  better 
ways  in  futur." 

^'  This  yere's  a  better  way  t'  go,  ain't  it,  Sammy  ? 
Nice,  clean  bed  in  the  Gunnel's  haouse,  an'  ever'- 
buddy  kine  and  pleasant." 

Sam  was  digging  his  knuckles  into  his  red  eyes; 
he  answered,  gruffly :  "  You  ain't  goin'  nowhar,  so 
you  shet  up  !  " 


EXPIATION.  187 

Lige's  face  worked  a  little.  "■  We  uns  b'en 
runnin'  together  fur  a  right  smart,  now  ain't  we?" 
he  said,  while  Sam  frowned  as  though  at  his  worst 
enemy.  ''  You  ain't  much  tuh  talk,  Sam,  but  you' 
a  man  tuh  tie  tew." 

*'  Naw,  I  ain't,"  sobbed  Sam  ;   ''  d ye,  Lige, 

don't  go  fur  t'  make  a  baby  er  me,  this  yer  way  !  " 

Lige  laughed  feebly.  '^  You  b'en  alius  the  same 
contrairy  cuss,  Sam."  Then,  with  a  change  of  his 
face  :  "  What's  come  er  Dick  ?  " 

"'  Devil  got  him,  at  last,"  said  Sam. 

Glad  to  divert  his  comrade's  thoughts,  he  rap- 
idly sketched  Dick's  end.  '' We  all  b'en  packin' 
up  the  wyounded,"  he  continued,  "  when  they 
comes  in  ;  the  young  feller  an'  Bud  an'  that  ar  ijit, 
Slick  Mose.  Fust  w^ord  the  ole  man  sayd:  *  Whar's 
Dick  Barnabas  ?  '  sezee.  '  Dick  Barnabas  is  dead, 
sir,'  says  the  young  feller,  mighty  solemn,  *■  an'  a 
layin'  out  thar  in  the  swamp  whar  he  murdered 
Laruge.  The  boy  done  it,'  sezee.  An'  you'd 
orter  heerd  the  cheerin'.  '  But  Mist'  Fair  fotched 
him  thar  an'  mired  him  up,'  says  Bud,  a  hollerin' 
it  loud.  'That's  all  right,  my  son,'  says  the 
Gunnel,  and  shakes  young  Rutherford's  hand. 

"  Then  my  young  gentleman  begins  an'  begs 
for  the  other  graybacks'  lives.     '  Wa'al,'  says   the 


i88 


EXP  I  A  TION. 


ole  man,  *  I  sayd  this  night  ever'  woman  an'  chile 
in  Lawrence  Caounty  cud  go  t'  sleep  an'  not 
be  skeered  er  the  graybacks.  If  Dick's  dead 
that's    shore    the    case.      Fur  these  fellers,    we'll 

giv  'em  a  fa'r 
caourt  marshill, 
an'  them  ain't 
done  tew  much 
murderin'  we'll 
let  off.'  That 
ar's  whut  they 
done." 

Lige  nodded. 
"Wa'al,"  he 
/  ^  '  said,  after  a 
pause,  "  fur  all 
I  got  my  ticket 
yistiddy,  I  yent 
sorry  I  come  ; 
Dick    had    'a' 

Lige  and  Sam,  killed   off   yOUng 

Rutherford,  shore,  if  I  hadn't  be'n  than  Sorter 
takes  the  taste  er  the  meanness  we  uns  done  him 
outer  my  mouth.  An'  so  he  begged  Race  an'  the 
restis  off.  Wa'al,  sir  !  Fit  well,  tew,  didn't  he  ?  " 
*'  He  did  so,"  Sam  agreed,  cordially. 


EXPIATION.  189 

Lige  appeared  to  be  thinking.  "  Naw,"  he 
muttered,  finally,  with  a  dissatisfied  sigh,  "  taste 
ain't  out  yit.  An'  if  I  war — war  to  meet  up  with 
Parson,  over  thar,  he'd  be  beratin'  me,  shore's 
you'  barn.      I  got  to  own  up,  Sam." 

''  Do  you  reckon  ?  "  said  Sam,  wistfully. 

''  Ya'as,  I  do.  Sam,  will  ye  ax  the  ole  man  an' 
him  come  in  yere,  a  minnit  ?  " 

Making  no  further  protest,  and  apparently  un- 
derstanding him,  Sam  moved  out  of  the  room. 
Once  in  the  hall,  behind  the  door,  the  tears  rolled 
unchecked  down  his  cheeks. 

"  Lord  A'mighty,  ain't  I  a  fool  !  "  he  kept  mut- 
tering, fighting  with  his  sobs.  ''  Quit,  ye  jack  ! 
Let  you'seff  be  so  overcrawed  !  Ain't  ye  got  no 
grit  ?     D ye,  quit  !  " 

But  for  all  his  abuse,  he  could  hardly  get 
through  his  message  to  the  Colonel ;  and,  back 
in  the  room,  he  flung  himself  on  his  knees  and 
buried  his  face  in  the  pillow.  Aunt  Hizzie  had 
been  sent  to  summon  Fair,  who  immediately 
responded. 

The  cook's  thoughts  being  thereby  directed 
into  gloomy  channels,  moved  her  to  song,  as 
usual.  Up  in  Lige's  room  they  could  hear  her 
chant : 


190 


EXPIA  TION. 


"Oh,  mohnah,  guv  up  you'  hain't  t'  die, 
When  de  rocks  an'  de  mountyns  dey  all  fall  away, 
Den  ye  shill  fine  a  new  hidin'  place. 
I'll  go  !  " 

'^  Confound    her,   /'//  go!"    cried    the   Colonel, 
"  I'll  shut  her  up." 

''  Naw,  sir,  don't,"  Lige  interjected  in  his  spent 
voice,  which  they  had  to  bend  to  hear.     ''  I  like 

tuh  hear  her. 
Minds  me  —  er 
my  maw  — sing- 
in' — an'  me  a 
totin'  in  trash 
fur  the  fire. 
She  b'en  a  tur- 
rible- 

woman  —  maw 

— seen   a   heap 

er  tr'uble,  tew. 

•' Sick  folks  don't  like  noise."  She  —  she     are 

dead,   ye    understan' — used  ter    much   you   sight, 

Sam.     Say'd  you— b'en  the  willin'est  boy." 

*'  His    mind    wanders,"   whispered    Fair   to    his 
father. 

"Naw,  't  doan',  neether,"  gurgled  Sam;  ''she 
did,  tew  !     Never  you  mind,  Lige." 


good 


EXPIATION.  191 

He  groped,  through  his  tears,  for  a  glass  on  the 
table  and  held  it  to  Lige's  lips.  The  liquor  ap- 
peared to  give  him  a  transient  vigor ;  he  opened 
his  eyes  and  said,  in  a  clear  tone  :  ''  I  are  glad  to 
see  you  all.  I  won't  hender  ye  much.  Fust, 
Cunnel,  you  promised  me  fifty  dollars  kase  I  fit, 
yistiddy.  I  want  it  all  t'  go  t'  m.y  ole  side-pardner, 
Sam.     Him  an'  me — Sam,  quit  goin'  that  a  way!  " 

Sam  choked  his  sobs  by  cramming  the  counter- 
pane in  his  mouth.  "  He  ain't  done  nare  much 
bad  things,  an'  ef  he  does  be  you'  friend  you  kin 
depend  on  'im  till  he  draps.  That  ar's  fust.  Sec- 
ond. You  all  reckon  Mist'  Rutherford  did  shoot 
Parson  Collins.  He  didn't.  It  b'en  me  shot  him. 
I  didn't  aim  t'  kill  him  ;  I  bin  hid  in  the  bush,  an' 
I  fired  at  Dick  kase  I  cudn't  stay  his  devilin'  the 
young  feller,  no  longer.  Sam,  he  cudn't  neether ; 
he  guv  a  sorter  screech  ;  an'  I  shot,  but  Dick  he 
jes'  then  stooped  daown,  suddint  like,  and  the  shoot 
went  crossways  into  Parson's  shoulder.  Looked 
like  he  b'en  hit  in  the  hairt,  but  he  didn't  b'en. 
Sam  he  'spicioned  how  it  mout  a'  b'en.  Reckon 
Ziah  an'  Mack  did,  tew,  fur  they  knowed  Mist' 
Rutherford  didn't  fire.  Anyway,  Sam  he  come 
back  an'  holped  me,  an'  'tween  us  we  toted  Parson 
tuh  Aunt  Tennie's,  an'  she  nussed  'im  well.     Slick 


192  EXPIATION. 

Mose,  he  b'en  monkeyin'  raoun'  mighty  briefly,  so 
we  'lowed  you  uns  wud  know  he  didn't  b'en  killed. 
But  when  Parson  got  pearter  he  got  Sam  an'  me 
t'  shake  the  graybacks,  an'  go  t'  you  uns.  You 
know  what  did  happen.  You  uns  scheemed  fur 
Parson  tuh  play  ghost  on  'em,  an'  it  worked 
fine. 

His  narrative  was  finished  with  great  difficulty, 
so  fast  were  his  powers  failing  him  ;  but  with  a 
strong  effort  he  turned  his  body  in  Fair's  direction. 

''Will  ye — call — it  squar',  young  feller?"  said 
he. 

Fair  had  stood  like  Spenser's  knight  in  his  col- 
loquy with  despair : 

"  And  troubled  blood  through  his  pale  face  was  seen 
To  come  and  go  with  tidings  from  the  heart, 
As  it  a  running  messenger  had  been," 

Only  it  was  hope  that  agitated  him. 

"Why,  surely,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  trembling 
voice,  "and  I'm  awfully  grateful  to  you  for 
telling." 

"  I  sorter  hated  tuh  tell,  fur  a  fact,"  the  gray- 
back  said,  faintly  ;  "  ye  see,  thar's  Parson.  I  was 
jubious  iz  how  he'd  take  it.  I'd  hate  mightily  tuh 
have   Parson  think  hard   er   me.     Wud — wud   ye 


o 


EXPIATION.  193 

sorter  give  hit  easy  like  tiih  Parson,  if  ye  please, 
sir.  Putt  it  in  nice  big-saoundin'  words,  an'  p'int 
out  cl'ar  how  I  never  did  aim  tuh  do  him  a  mean- 
ness." 

''Yes,   of   course,"  said    Fair;   ''I'll  bring  him 
here." 

It  was  not  hard  to  make  Parson  Collins  lenient 
in  his  view  of  Lige's  act.  "Why,  he  didn't  go  for 
to  hit  me,"  cried  he ;  "  bless  my  soul,  he  was  only 
aiming  to  hit  Dick  Barnabas,  which  I  consider  a 
virtuous  act !  Yes,  sir,  a  plumb  virtuous  act ! 
The  intent,  you  know,  sir,  the  intent — we  are  all 
liable  to  shoot  wrong.  Miserable  sinners,  miser- 
able sinners,  you  know.  Dear,  dear,  dear  !  ain't  it 
too  bad  the  poor  fellow's  got  to  die?  Five  killed, 
and  this  makes  six,  besides  the  graybacks  who  I 
had  ought  to  count,  I  expect,  but  it  doesn't  look 
like  the  same  thing.  Yesterday,  sir,  minded  me  of 
the  words  of  the  Psalmist,  '  Ride  on  because  of  the 
word  of  truth,  of  meekness,  and  righteousness; 
and  thy  right  arm  shall  te^ch  thee  terrible  things.' 
Terrible,  verily,  sir,  but  we  must  not  forget  that 
they  are  merciful,  also,  since  they  have  delivered 
this  poor  country  from  the  spoiler."  He  was 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  now  bent 
over  and  took  ofT  his  boots,  muttering,  "  Sick  folks 
13 


1 94  EXP  I  A  TION, 

don't  like  noise.  He  used  to  be  mighty  still  and 
careful  with  me." 

It  happened  that  their  way  led  them  by  a  win- 
dow in  the  hall.  Neither  of  them  looked  out. 
They  knew  why  the  little  crowd  was  still  loitering 
under  the  pecan-trees,  and  why  the  wagons  and  the 
black  men  with  spades  waited.  The  Parson  said, 
under  his  breath:  '''Madness  is  in  their  hearts 
while  they  live,  and  after  that  they  go  to  the  dead.' 
God  forgive  them  !  " 

Lige  was  too  feeble  to  say  much  to  them.  He 
asked  Parson  Collins,  eagerly,  if  it  was  all  square 
between  them,  and  seemed  pleased  at  the  answer. 
Then  he  sank  into  a  semi-conscious  state,  while 
the  minister  prayed  fervently,  aloud. 

Something  of  the  petition  he  must  have  com- 
prehended, for  at  its  close  he  whispered,  "  That's 
all  right,  Parson.  That's  me,  ornery,  trifling, 
wicked   cuss  ;  but  d if  I   ain't  sorry  !  " 

The  Parson  took  no  more  note  of  the  profanity 
than  did  poor  Lige,  who  swcre  in  all  simplicity, 
and  with  a  contrite  heart.  Presently  he  spoke 
again.     "  Say,  Parson,  did  ye  get  Ma'y  Jane  ?  " 

''Yes,  sir.     Mr.  Rutherford  fetched  her." 

A  very  pleasant  smile  dawned  on  the  gray- 
back's  face.     "  Dick  got  skinned  all  raoun',  then. 


EXPIATION.  195 

I  tole  ye,  Sam,  he  cudn't  match  Parson  in  a 
trade."  With  that  he  laid  his  cheek  against  his 
old  comrade's  arm  and  shut  his  eyes. 

They  thought  that  he  slept.  But  in  a  little 
while  his  sleep  was  merged  into  that  slumber  the 
dreams  of  which  are  never  unravelled  by  waking 
care. 


XII. 

THE  two  Rutherfords  left  the  Parson  with 
Sam.  The  Colonel  had  said  to  Fair : 
"  Mind  coming  into  the  library  a  minnit,  Fair?" 
He  walked  ahead,  erect,  with  his  most  martial 
air.  He  set  his  feet  firmly  on  the  floor.  But  Fair 
looked  dazed  and  ashamed.  His  thankfulness 
(now  that  he  had  time  to  realize  that  his  nerves 
had  not  betrayed  his  will)  was  so  intense  that  it 
approached  humiliation.  "  I  came  awfully  near 
yielding,  anyhow,"  he  was  thinking. 

He  was  keenly  conscious,  besides,  of  the  em- 
barrassment of  the  situation,  a  son  grievously 
wronged  by  his  father,  at  least  in  thought,  going 
to  an  explanation,  possibly  to  an  apology.  He 
cudgelled  his  wits  to  find  a  way  to  assure  the  old 
man  that  no  abasement  was  needed,  without  of- 
fensively assuming  that  any  abasement  was  due. 
He  grew  hot  over  the  dilemma.  But  he  might 
have  spared  himself  any  worry  on  the  Colonel's 
account.  Plainly  that  gentleman  felt  none  for 
himself.     No  sooner  were  they  in  the  library  than 


EXP  I  A  TION, 


19; 


he  sank  into  his  own  especial  chair  and  flung  one 
leg  over  the  arm.  It  was  an  attitude  that  Fair 
remembered  from  his  childhood,  but  he  had  not 
seen  it  once  since  he  came  home. 

"  Anything  to  drink,  Fair  ?  "  said  the  Colonel, 
smiling  as  genially  as  if  the  tears  were  not  twink- 
ling in  his  eyes.     "  Thanks  to  you,  we  are  pretty 


well  stocked  up  again.  No  ?  Well,  that's  right. 
'Tis  too  early  in  the  morning.  Well,  boy,  I 
reckon  I  had  ought  to  say  something  to  you ; 
but,  fact  is,  it  goes  better  in  a  story.  There  was 
a  fellow  in  old  Virginia  was  a  great  wag.  He  was 
mighty  fond  of  good  company  and  used  to  stay 
pretty  late  nights  at  the  tavern.     He  had  a  nice 


1 98  EXPIATION. 

wife,  but  she  was  tolerable  fiery  and  high-strung, 
and  I  reckon,  sometimes,  he  got  a  good  dressing 
down  when  he  got  home.  We  all  felt  rather 
curious  about  it,  and  one  night,  when  he  was 
pretty  happy,  waiting  on  the  moon,  we  asked 
him  what  he  used  to  say  when  he  got  home. 
'■  Oh,  that's  easy  nuff,'  says  he,  '  I  don't  say  much. 
I  jest  say,  good  evening — sJie  says  the  rest  ! '  " 

''  That's  about  my  position.  Fair.  I've  made  a 
cussed  fool  mistake  about  you,  and  I'm  infernally 
g-glad  of  it.  Y-you  can  say  the  rest  !  So  shake 
hands." 

Fair  jumped  up  to  shake  hands,  but  his  father 
hugged  the  slight  young  figure  with  such  energy 
that  there  was  barely  breath  enough  left  in  it  to 
gasp  :  ''  I  say,  father,  after  that  I  think  I  will  take 
soniething." 

He  could  not  have  pleased  the  Colonel  better. 

*'  And  I'm  p-proud  of  you,  sir.  Always  w-was," 
he  roared,  quite  openly  wiping  his  eyes,  '^  always 
aim  to  be.  Oh,  never  m-mind  my  crying!  As 
Montaigne  says,  you  know,  some  fellers  cry  easier 
than  others — or  words  to  that  effect.  Now  set 
dow^n  and  wait,  till  I  fetch  in  your  s-stepmother." 
H  J  stopped  short,  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  canvas 
from  which  looked  the  girlish  beauty  of  Fair's  own 


EXPIATION.  109 

mother;  and  his  voice  failed  him.  Did  she,  too, 
see  this  day  when  his  son  who  was  dead  was  aHve 
aeain  ;  who  was  lost,  was  found  ? 

"  Fair,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  ''  she — she's  proud  of 
you,  too. 


XIII. 

• 

IN  how  short  a  time  does  peace  repair  the  rav- 
ages of  war  !  The  bugle  had  sounded  its  last 
charge  on  the  Black  River.  Where  the  guerillas 
paid  the  penalty  of  their  crimes,  the  next  spring's 
grass  covered  the  trampled  sod  as  generously  as  if 
it  had  never  been  disfigured  or  stained.  The  mill 
buzzed  cheerily  over  huge  logs,  sawing  for  ''  the 
new  houses."  A  score  of  ragged,  good-natured 
idlers  hung  about  the  well-filled  shelves  of  the 
store,  or  over  a  gay  huddle  of  ploughs  and 
wagons  by  the  river-side,  bartering  their  future 
crops. 

Very  tender  and  lovely  looked  the  first  dawn  of 
the  spring  foliage.  The  cypress-trees  were  newly 
pricked  out  in  green,  and  the  sullen  black-walnuts 
had  not  so  much  as  ventured  a  bud  on  the  chances 
of  summer;  but  already  the  live-oaks  and  the  wil- 
lows glittered  in  woodland  bravery.  The  syca- 
mores looked  like  illuminations  in  an  old  missal, 
with  dull-gold  leaves  on  silver  boughs.  Gorgeous 
vermilion  and  orange  blooms  on  the  maple,  yellow 


EXPIATION.  20 1 

sassafras  blossoms,  velvet  hickory-buds,  shaded 
darkly  red,  brilliant  tassels  swinging  from  cotton- 
wood  limbs,  white  dogwood,  tier  on  tier,  in  the 
woods,  scarlet  buckeye  bells,  and  purple  masses  of 
red-bud  were  blended  in  a  magical  tapestry  hung 
between  earth  and  sky  for  the  poorest's  joy. 

All  the  innumerable  vines  and  creeping  or  climb- 
ing things,  the  shrubs,  the  saplings — the  woodland 
peasantry,  one  may  say — were  astir,  growing  and 
leafing.  The  thrill  of  the  beautiful  season  of  life 
and  hope  seemed  to  vibrate  everywhere.  The 
very  logs  and  stumps  were  fair  to  see,  now, 
sheathed  in  leaves  and  floating  tendrils. 

But  far  back  in  the  brake,  where  the  shade  made 
a  dusk  at  midday,  where  hideous  hackberry  trunks 
and  cypress  knees  and  a  thicket  of  rank  swamp- 
flowers  surrounded  a  ruined  cotton-field,  who  could 
tell  whether  the  buzzards  still  poised  their  wings 
above  one  twice-accursed  spot?  Aunt  Hizzie  had 
grewsome  tales  of  a  ghost  capering  on  the  shore, 
and  a  ghost  cursing  and  sinking  in  the  mire.  No 
one  ever  ventured  near  enough  to  contradict  her. 
Bud  Fowler,  who  was  prospering  on  his  father's 
farm,  only  blinked  his  sharp  eyes  and  remarked 
that  he  hadn't  lost  nare  ghost,  for  why  should  he 
go  hunt  one  ? 


202  EXPIA  TION. 

^'  Bud's  all  right,"  said  the  Colonel;  "  he  makes 
me  think  of  Aunt  Hizzie  when  old  Tappitoes 
wanted  to  baptize  her  in  winter.  She  wouldn't, 
cause  she'd  sure  be  chillin',  she  said.  '  Doan'  ye 
trust  in  de  Lawd,  sister  ?  '  says  ole  Tappitoes — 
biggest  black  scoundrel  unhung,  ye  know ! — • 
*  Doan'  ye  trust  in  de  Lawd  ? '  says  he.  '  Aw, 
ya'as,  bruder,'  says  Hizzie,  '  I  does  trust  p'intedly 
in  de  Lawd  ;  but  I  ain't  gwine  fool  wid  him  !  ' 
That's  Bud — he  ain't  'fraid  of  ghosts,  but  he  don't 
'low  to  fool  with  them." 

The  one  black  spot  on  the  plantation  is  out  of 
sight  of  the  house  ;  it  did  not  disturb  Adele,  when 
she  looked  out  of  the  library  window  and  gazed 
around  her,  on  a  certain  bright  spring  morning. 
Freshly  turned  furrows  drawn  across  the  fields 
showed  that  men  hoped  to  gather  what  they 
should  sow.  Whitewash  smartened  the  cabins. 
Fences  were  mended.  There  were  a  few  new 
houses  of  the  humbler  sort.  Compared  to  the 
desolate  stagnation  which  was  the  lot  of  most 
Southern  plantations  in  those  days,  the  place 
looked  marvellously  prosperous. 

The  Colonel,  who  had  returned  to  his  old  idol- 
atry, openly  ascribed  his  happier  state  to  Fair. 
"  Fact    is,  sir,  my  son    is  a  stirring  young   man. 


EXPIA  TION.  203 

Energy    and    education,    both.     Knows    how    to 
tinanage." 

Really,  Fair  had  worked  with  a  patlietic  in- 
dustry to  master  a  new  business,  but  the  Colonel 
did  himself  and  his  silent  partner,  Adele,  injustice, 
and  something  is  due  to  Fairfax  Senior's  capital. 

Adele,  however,  was  only  too  pleased  to  be  ef- 
faced ;  to  be  able  to  admire  and  exult  where  she 
had  used  to  comfort  and  defend.  At  first,  with 
unmixed  joy,  she  used  to  watch  Fairfax  in  his 
new  clothes,  with  his  exquisite  toilet  appoint- 
ments (the  young  sybarite  must  needs  send  to 
New  York  for  them)  ;  ivory  brushes  and  hand- 
glasses, and  glittering  steel  instruments  for  the 
care  of  his  nails,  the  uses  of  which  her  imagination 
could  not  compass ;  soaps  and  sponges  and  mys- 
terious bath  luxuries ;  a  great  box,  in  fact,  at 
which  the  Colonel  jeered,  and  in  which  he  secretly 
gloried  beyond  measure.  And  Adele,  too,  glo- 
ried, having  found  her  fairy  prince  again.  She 
liked  him  to  be  fastidious  in  his  personal  habits  ; 
she  was  proud  of  his  polished  manners  and  his 
clothes  and  the  very  fashion  of  his  talk.  Fair, 
indeed,  appeared  in  a  new  role.  Mrs.  Rutherford 
could  not  find  enough  to  say  regarding  his  amus- 
ing qualities.     He  took  the  inconveniences   and 


204  EXPIA  TION. 

vexations  and  restrictions  of  their  manner  of  living 
as  gayly  as  possible.  He  set  himself  to  learning 
the  dialect  with  tremendous  zeal.  He  was  enrapt- 
ured with  the  woods  and  the  water  ;  he  rode,  he 
hunted ;  even  in  his  misadventures  he  always 
discovered  something  ludicrous.  Being  a  capital 
mimic,  he  could  tell  a  story  in  a  way  to  captivate 
his  father  ;  while,  had  his  sympathy  with  all  her 
plans,  his  ''  handy  ways  about  a  house,"  his  small 
domestic  ingenuities,  and  his  promptness  at  meals 
not  already  won  her,  Mrs.  Rutherford  had  sur- 
rendered afresh,  every  time  she  heard  his  peals  of 
laughter  over  Colonel  Rutherford's  jokes.  And 
yet,  often,  when  Parson  Collins  preached,  or  they 
gathered,  Sunday  nights,  around  the  piano  (which 
Fair  had  tuned),  and  he  played  while  they  sang 
their  simple  hymns;  or,  it  maybe,  merely  walking 
in  the  woods,  or  standing  on  the  river-bank  to 
view  the  daily  pageant  of  sunset,  Adele  would 
observe  a  mood  of  deep  though  not  sad  gravity. 

She  could  imagine,  at  such  times,  that  he  was 
remembering  the  past  with  gratitude,  and  survey- 
ing the  future  with  humility. 

Those  were  the  times  when  she  felt  her  old  sense 
of  nearness  to  him  ;  just  as  she  used  to  feel  in  the 
horrible,  precious  past,  when  she  was  all  that  he 


EXPIA  TION.  205 

had  of  hope  or  consolation.  There  was  the  misery 
of  it,  she  was  nothing  to  him  now.  Does  any  love 
resign  its  right  to  help  without  a  pang  ?  At  first, 
in  her  unselfish  devotion,  Adele  was  purely  and 
proudly  glad.  But  little  by  little  a  gulf  had 
seemed  to  open  between  them.  She  read  Fair's 
new  novels  (which  came  by  every  boat  since  the 
boat  had  begun  running),  and  felt  a  sick  sort  of 
dismay,  because  she  knew  that  she  did  not  in  the 
least  resemble  any  of  Dickens's  or  Thackeray's  or 
Trollope's  heroines.  With  the  kindest  intentions 
he  sent  for  a  great  heap  of  feminine  finery  and 
fashion-plates  for  her  guidance.  I  profess  I  could 
weep  (as  Adele  did,  eiitre  nous),  when  I  picture 
those  poor  Arkansas  gentlewomen  poring  help- 
lessly over  the  pictures,  and  contrasting  the 
strange  furbelows  with  Madam  Rutherford's  one 
cherished  threadbare  silk,  which  had  b^en  the 
couple's  gown  of  state  (worn  impartially  by 
either)  for  years. 

"  Oh,  mamma  " — I  seem  to  hear  Adele's  voice 
with  the  little  shake  to  it,  because,  in  spite  of  her, 
she  cannot  speak  quite  firmly — "  we  never  ca7i 
make  a  dress  like  these.  They  ain't  like  anything 
that  I  ever  saw  on  earth  !  " 

It  was  not  vanity  that  made  Adele   cry  so   bit- 


206  EXPIATION. 

terly  when  she  went  to  bed  that  night,  although 
she  took  herself  to  task  quite  as  ferociously  as  if 
it  had  been. 

It  came  to  this  pass,  finally,  that  the  dejected 
scorn  of  herself  in  comparison  with  him,  which 
had  wrung  the  little  girl's  heart,  now  hung  like  a 
stone  on  the  woman's.  Of  course,  she  grew  less 
cordial,  less  frank  and  unstudied,  with  Fair.  Then 
after  a  time  she  thought  that  she  could  see  that 
he  was  not  so  happy.  There  was  more  premedi- 
tation about  his  gayety,  and  sometimes,  if  he 
did  not  know  he  was  watched,  it  would  drop  from 
his  countenance,  to  be  replaced  by  a  sombre 
care. 

"  He  is  fretting  to  go  back,"  thought  Adele. 

This  morning  her  imagination  was  repeating  a 
scene  at  the  breakfast-table  which  seemed  to  her 
to  offer  the  key  to  Fair's  late  depression.  Adele 
is  watching  Fair  read  his  letters.  A  photograph, 
somewhere  in  the  pile,  slips  off  the  table,  on  to 
the  floor,  at  her  feet.  She  tells  herself  it  is  dis- 
honorable to  look,  she  assures  herself  that  she 
will  not  look,  and,  of  course,  eventually,  she  does 
look.  She  sees  a  very  pretty  girl  in  a  gown  like 
those  which  are  Adele's  despair,  a  girl  who  has  a 
high-bred   air  in   every  line  of  her  face.     Fair  is 


EXP  I  A  TION.  207 

too  absorbed  in  his  letter  to  notice  anything  else  ; 
it  is  the  Colonel  who  picks  up  the  carte. 

'^  Hullo!"  says  he,  '^  here's  a  pretty  way  to 
treat  a  fair  lady!  Who  is  she,  Fair?  Favors 
Delia  a  bit,  but  she  ain't  half  so  handsome." 

Fair  holds  out  his  hand  for  the  photograph  and 
says,  with  what  Adele  considers  a  very  good  imi- 
tation of  composure:  ''  Her  name  is  Lady  Ethel- 
dred  Aylmer." 

''  Thunder !  "  exclaims  the  Colonel,  who  in- 
stantly looks  very  foolish,  and  falls  upon  the 
unlucky  Nels;  ''What  the  deuce  is  he  making 
such  a  hullabaloo  for,  in  the  gallery?" 

"  Why,  laws,  Marse,"  cries  Nels,  "  dat  ain't  me 
hoUerin'  an'  bellerin'.  Dat  Solomon  Izril;  he 
done  steal  a  big  drink  outer  one  er  Hizzie's  mix- 
teries ;  an'  it  zviikin   in  him  !  " 

"  Oh,  you  get  out,"  bawls  the  Colonel,  good- 
humoredly  ;  "  you're  always  abusing  Hizzie." 
There  is  more  to  the  same  purpose ;  and  doubt- 
less the  innocent  soldier  flatters  himself  that  he 
has  deceived  his  womankind  into  thinking  that 
his  ejaculation  started  for  Nels.  He  goes  off  to 
the  store,  chuckling.  Presently  Fair  follows  him. 
Before  his  back  is  well  out  of  the  door,  Mrs. 
Rutherford  sighs,  "  Dear  boy,  he  is  so  like  Jeff." 


208  EXP  I  A  TION. 

No  one  could  be  less  like  Jeff  than  Fair,  but  it  is 
Mrs.  Rutherford's  highest  compliment.  ''  I  hope 
he  wont  marry  this  Lady — what's  her  name  ?  " 
she  continues;  "I  hate  to  think  of  him  going 
away.  Oh,  dear,  I  'most  wish  I  hadn't  got  to 
being  so  fond  of  him  !  " 

Ad^le  feels  her  heart  stand  still ;  yet  she  asks, 
carelessly  enough,  "  Is  there  any  chance  of  his 
marrying  her  ?  " 

''  Well,  Uncle  Fair  wants  him  to,"  says  Mrs. 
Rutherford;  ^' dear  me,  there  goes  Aunt  Hizzie. 
That  woman  is  right  trying.  Never  will  move, 
stands  right  where  she  happens  to  be,  and 
hollers  r 

So  Mrs.  Rutherford  hurries  away  while  Aunt 
Hizzie's  mellow  tones  fill  the  gallery  :  "  Yo2i, 
Solomon  Lize,  wherever  you  is !  go  tell  ole  miss 
Slick  Mose  got  a  mess  er  greens  fur  er." 

This  is  the  scene  which  Adele  was  dolefully 
elaborating  to  herself  until  she  saw  Slick  Mose 
approach.  The  idiot  was  clad  very  decently  in  a 
jean  suit,  and  was  blowing  on  one  of  those  little 
mouth-pieces  called '' harps  "  in  the  South.  His 
elf-locks  had  been  cut  and  were  plastered  un- 
evenly over  his  skull,  Mose's  idea  of  high  toilet. 
He  slunk  through  the  garden  round  to  the  front 


EXPIA  TION.  209 

of  the  house.     Adele  knew   that  he  was  seeking 
her. 

Instinctively,  she  drew  back  out  of  sight. 
Then,  **  What  right  have  T  to  be  sorry?"  she 
said  sternly  to  herself;  'Mt  is  cruel  to  disappoint 
a  poor  crazy  creature."  She  forced  herself  to 
smile  at  Mose.  He  came  and  stood  below  the 
window,  and  she  sat  on  the  sill  and  talked  with 
him  and  listened  to  him.  He  showed  her  the 
mouth-organ  which  Fair  had  given  him.  ''  He 
good,"  jabbered  Mose,  'Move  La  Da!"  And  he 
laughed. 

Was  even  this  brutish  creature  to  stab  her? 
But  she  remembered  how  simple  and  limited  was 
poor  Mose's  definition.  Yes,  surely,  in  the  way 
Mose  meant,  he  did  love  her.  It  was  something. 
Why,  it  was  all  she  wanted. 

''No,"  said  Adele,  "  I  never  have  lied  to  myself, 
I  won't  now;  it  isn't!"  Meanwhile,  Mose  was 
crooning  the  air  to  a  song  which  Fair  used  to 
sing.  He  had  the  same  facility  in  catching  the 
notes  of  music  that  he  had  in  mimicking  the 
birds'  calls  or  the  wild  beasts'  cries. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  Mose,  where  did  you  pick  up   my 
song?"     Mose    may   have    seen    the   young    man 
coming,  but  the  tender  little  German  melody  had 
14 


2IO  EXPIATION. 

drawn  Adele  into  another  world  ;  she  started  so 
violently  at  Fair's  voice  that  she  almost  fell  out 
of  the  window.  Fair  caught  her;  he  held  her  for 
a  second — long  enough  to  see  that  her  eyes  were 
full  of  tears. 

With  as  grave  a  face  as  her  own,  he  released  her. 

Mose,  looking  from  one  to  the  other,  began 
a  distressed  murmur.  ''You  must  smile,"  said 
Adele,  quickly,  "  he  likes  to  see  smiles ;  always, 
poor  soul.  Look,  Mose,  it's  all  right,  Mose  ;  and 
there's  your  friend,  Mr.  Collins,  coming.  Run  and 
meet  up  with  him." 

Mose  clapped  his  hands.  He  needed  no  further 
urging  to  run  toward  a  portly  elderly  man  on  a 
white  mule. 

"Well,  Cousin  Adele,"  said  Fair,  "what  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

"  1  don't  understand  you.  Cousin  Fair." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do  ;  what  made  you  cry  ?  " 

"I  —  I  don't  know.  I  reckon  it  was  the 
song." 

*'  The  song  !     Do  you  know  the  words,  then  ?" 

"They  are  German.  I  don't  understand  Ger- 
man." 

He  looked  at  her  with  rather  a  strange  expres- 
sion, she  thought. 


EXP  I  A  TION.  2 1 1 

*'  It  is  something  of  Heine's,"  said  he,  '*  one  of 
his  adorable,  incomparable  trifles.  Only  two 
stanzas.  In  the  first  the  poet  tells  of  the  mis- 
eries people  have  brought  on  him — some  of 
them  with  their  hate,  some  of  them  with  their 
love.  Then  he  says  that  she  who  has  ruined  him 
most  completely  is  '  she  who  never  has  hated  me, 
she  who  never  has  loved.'     That's  all." 

Adele  murmured  a  faint  ''  Oh  !  "  Feeling  that 
hardly  adequate  comment,  she  added,  "-  I  didn't 
expect  you  to  stop  so  soon." 

He  was  regarding  her  with  extraordinary  grav- 
ity. "  I  believe,"  said  he,  letting  each  word  have 
its  full  ring,  as  if  it  were  a  coin  to  be  tested,  ''  I 
believe  I  zvont  stop.  It  would  be  base  for  me  to 
say  that  you  had  done  for  me  like  the  sweet- 
heart in  the  song,  for  whether  you  make  me 
miserable  now  or  not,  you  saved  me,  and  I  shall 
always  thank  God  I  knew  such  a  noble  woman  as 
you.  But — life  will  be  awfully  hard  to  stand  if 
you  can't  love  me — some  time." 

She  turned  her  head  away. 

"  Adele,  I  didn't  dare  say  this,  before.  I  said 
I  would  try  to  show  you  I  was  something 
more  than  the  poor  creature  you  saved  from 
despair.     Have  I   shown  myself  enough  of  a  man 


212  EXPIATION. 

to  have  the  right  to  tell  you  how  I  love  you, 
dear  ?  " 

His  only  answer  was  a  whisper  ;  of  which  he 
could  barely  catch  the  words,  "  Lady  Etheldred." 

He  laughed  outright  in  a  sudden  relief. 
"  Lady  Etheldred  is  awfully  sweet  and  jolly," 
said  he,  "  and  she  is  engaged  to  the  best  fellow  in 
the  world,  and  my  best  friend.  She  wrote  me  all 
about  it  this  morning.  Such  a  nice,  womanly 
sort  of  a  letter.  I  don't  believe  she  would  mind 
your  seeing  it.  In  fact" — he  flushed  uncomfort- 
ably— "  I  did  tell  her  something  about  you,  and 
there  is  a — a  reference  to  you  in  it.  You  had  been 
so  stiff  to  me  lately  I  was  awfully  low,  and  she — she 
heartened  me  up  in  the  nicest  way  and  advised 
me  to — to  speak  to  you." 

*' But  Uncle  Fair?  She  was  his  choice  for 
you."     This  sentence  came  clearer. 

Fairfax  laughed  again.  "  Oh,  he  is  quite  recon- 
ciled. Besides,  as  long  as  I  am  not  Jicr  choice, 
you  know  it  can't  very  much  matter." 

*'  But  I  am  sure  he  wouldn't  want  you  to  marry 
me,"  said  Adele,  slowly. 

*'  Don't  be  too  sure,"  said  Fairfax,  gayly  (yet 
he  flushed  a  little,  having  his  uncle's  letter  in  his 
pocket  and  fresh  from  an  indignant  reading  of  its 


EXPIATION.  213 

cool  sentences,  its  reservations  about  Adele,  and 
its  rather  cynical  resignation  to  hot-headed  youth) ; 
"he  gives  his  consent— if  I  can  gain  yours.  Of 
course,  I  made  a  clean  breast  of  everything.  He 
is  coming  here." 

He  caught  her  arm  with  a  kind  of  tender  rude- 
ness which  she  did  not  think  was  in  him,  yet 
which  did  not  offend  her.  "  I  am  afraid  of  you," 
he  cried  ;  "  why  do  you  treat  me  this  way  ?  Why 
did  you  avoid  me?  Did  you  want  to  spare  me 
the  mortification  of  asking  and  being  refused  ? 
Do  you  think  /  can  be  mortified  before  you — 
after  you  have  seen  me — oh,  I  loved  you  even 
then,  though  I  thought  I  had  no  hope  you  could 
do  anything  more  than  pity  such  a  cur  !  Do  you 
know  the  picture  I  was  always  drawing  in  my 
head  by  way  of  consoling  myself  ?  It  was  to  get 
killed  by  the  graybacks— after  performing  prodi- 
gies of  valor,  of  course — and  then  be  carted  here 
somehow  and  die  with  my  head  on  your  arm. 
That  seemed  to  me  my  only  way  out  of  the 
hole. 

"  Well,  you  know  how  it  was.  I  didn't  perform 
any  prodigies.  I  didn't  bring  Dick  Barnabas  to 
bay — the  mule  threw  him.  I  hadn't  the  resolution 
to  shoot  him.     It  was,  I  confess,  all  I  could  do 


214  EXPIATION. 

to  keep  from  letting  the  villain  get  off  scot-free. 
Bud  shot  him.  All  that  was  left  for  me  to  do  was 
just  to  plod  along  here,  thankful  to  God  that  my 
wretched  cowardice  hadn't  made  me  a  murderer, 
and  that  I  hadn't  shown  the  white  feather  at  the 
last.  I  swore  to  myself  I  would  at  least  show  you 
that  I  understood  what  you  said  to  me  that  day, 
and  that  I  wouldn't  speak  until  you  knew  that  I 
was  safe  to  stick  to  my  expiating  like  the  peo- 
ple in  the  marriage  ceremony,  '  until  death  do 
us  part.'  And  lately — well,  lately,  I  haven't 
dared." 

She  turned  her  face  the  very  least  toward  him, 
a  small  concession  which  made  him  immediately 
possess  himself  of  her  other  hand. 

*'  My  darling,"  he  said,  huskily,  ''  I  am  a  poor 
fellow,  I  know,  but  the  bravest  man  in  the  world 
couldn't  love  you  more  than  I  do." 

''  You  are  the  bravest  man  in  the  w^orld  to 
me  ! "  said  she,  lifting  her  sweet  eyes  bravely, 
though  her  cheeks  were  afire. 

He  uttered  a  rapturous  exclamation  and  would 
have  drawn  her  toward  him,  but  a  noise  of 
whacks  and  shouts  startled  them  both.  Yells 
of,  "■  Whoa.  Huh  !  Quit  your  funning  ! "  and  the 
like,  ended  in : 


o 


EXP  I  A  TION,  2 1 5 

'*  Well,  have  your  own  way,  you  hussy,  you'll 
live  longer." 

Fairfax,  who  had  jumped  through  the  window, 
swung  himself  back.  ''  It  is  nothing,"  said  he, 
"  only  Parson  Collins  leading  Ma'y  Jane  round  a 
fence-corner." 


r 


^A^V 


KAKI    HOOK 
tOI  I  IC HON 


TIIF.  LIKKAKV  OK  THE 

IINIVI  RSII  V  OK 

NOIMII  (  AKOI  INA 

Al 

CHAPFl    nil.L 

Wilmer 
474 


